From The Time You Say Goodbye
by Tall on the Inside
Summary: Collab between myself and bobness. WWII letter fic. After saving the life of a lonely Englishman, American pilot Alfred F. Jones feels it's his duty to write to him while he's away, to make sure the man doesn't get himself into any more trouble.
1. Of Heroes and Duck Ponds

In times of chaos and madness, one often finds sanity and sanctuary in the most abnormal and unexpected places. Arthur Kirkland, for example, thought that he had found it in the small pond in the park a few streets down from the church he and his siblings had frequented as children.

He didn't go to church anymore. He stopped going to church a long time ago. Recent events had had him thinking about death almost every moment of every day, and the idea of rekindling his relationship with God had played through his mind more than once, but he couldn't do it. To him, the church was not a place of worship, but a storage space of memories; memories of a time when the world wasn't ravaged by warfare, a time when everything that was dear to him had yet to be cruelly snatched from his grip. He couldn't bring himself to spend every Sunday in a church, praying amongst widowed, childless mothers, all of whom would be wondering why he was with them, and not defending their country.

Arthur Kirkland was not the strongest of men, but he wanted to do his part. He didn't particularly want to fight in the war that had taken from him two brothers, a sister-in-law, a brother-in-law and a nephew. He didn't see the glory in fighting, in warfare, in death, but he felt this burning need, this longing, to fight for Britain, to do his part for the war, to die defending his country.

He didn't want to die crammed into an air raid shelter, surrounded by strangers. Unfortunately, that was probably how he was going to spend his final moments; his last breath would be taken with people who would push him away in order to save themselves. The prospect was less than inviting. Was it too much of him to ask to die with family, in the arms of people who cared and loved him? Of course, they weren't the same thing; he could either die with people who genuinely liked him, or people who were related to him. His siblings, whom he rarely saw, due to this distance between their homes, had blamed him for the death of their mother- supposedly, living in London meant he was able to protect their mother from every single bomb Germany chose to drop over their heads. Their bitter anger and resentment had grown when he had been deemed unfit to serve in the army, and increased significantly with every family death. It was as though his remaining siblings thought that, were he in the army, the war would be over by now. Or at least, two of them did; his younger brother had been evacuated, and chose not to write to Arthur, so the man had no clue how he was.

Arthur had been born some twenty-three years ago, in the first year of peace after the Great War, the war to end all wars. It made him sick to think of all the soldiers who had given up their lives less than thirty years ago to gain the peace that had now been demolished. He had lost all faith in the good of humanity after the declaration of war. It was almost as though humans were so displeased by anything other than chaos that they couldn't even wait three decades to plunge the world back into the darkness of death and destruction.

He had a horrible, inescapable feeling that this war would be more horrific than the last. He felt that there was nothing too cruel, too deadly, or too destructive that either side wouldn't present it with a flourish as the grand finale that would win them this war. The slaughter of innocent civilians, the terror that he had been living through for however long proved the complete ruthlessness of Britain's enemies. The fall of France, her willingness to surrender, and the manner in which she just completely severed ties with Britain, protecting herself and the French people by allowing Germany to occupy half, and forming that Vichy with the remains, showed the weakness of Britain's allies. Arthur could only hope things would get better now that America had joined the war, and was fighting with Britain.

After all, it couldn't get much worse now, could it?

He trudged miserably down the broken wreckages of the streets that made up the capital of the small island nation that once owned half of the world. But the moon had finally shone upon the empire on which the sun never set, and time and time again Britain had found herself without allies. So without allies, in fact, that she had been forced to team up with France for two catastrophic wars in a row. And what had that done for the relations between Britain and that country across the Channel? Nothing. France had surrendered, and Britain's ally had once again returned to her rightful position as a foe. Not as great an enemy as Germany, but a threat none the less, what with France's proximity to Britain. Now under Germany's thumb, Arthur expected it was only a matter of time until some form of attack was launched by the French.

Contemplating the futility of his existence, he found his feet taking him down streets he no longer recognised, but had once known every tiny detail of; streets now decorated with dust and silence, empty without the echoes of children's screams and footsteps on cobbled ground. If he closed his eyes, he was back there, back in that time when they were all alive. His hand was clasped around his mother's, and her sweet voice was calling down the street to his elder siblings, who were running down the street madly, yelling and screaming. His sister's hair was in two long neat plaits; hair that she would one day cut off, to make working in a munitions factory less of a hazard. The straw hat that she only wore on Sundays, for church, was in the hands of Scott, who was two years her junior, and was leaping ahead of her, dodging her when she darted towards him, attempting to reclaim it. Scott wasn't aware of it at the time, but these dodging skills would one day come in very handy when fighting in Africa, only to come home, injured, and find his wife and son dead. The eldest of the Kirklands, Patrick, clearly wanted to help his sister regain her hat, but felt too mature to join in with their squabble. It was this unwillingness to get involved in conflict- although normally, Patrick was an aggressive, angry, violent man- that would, most likely, influence him and his decision to conscientiously object. Arthur was in his Sunday best. His jacket itched, his collar was stiff and his shoes too tight. Rhys, who was older than him only by a year, held Arthur's other hand, and babbled away about any random thought that occurred to him, almost skipping down the street, whilst Arthur listened intently, their mother chipping in with a, "That's nice dear,", every now and again. No one could have ever dreamt at the time that Rhys, who hardly ever said a bad word about anyone, who was always so full of energy and life, who had such great plans of travelling the world and doing so much with his life, would be the first of the Kirkland children to die.

He wished he could remember it all in better detail; the short journey from church to the park was one often laced with bickering, puny squabbles that had seemed like warfare to the children back then. How wrong they were. Real war was nothing like the petty fights of their youth.

Arthur wished they were. He would give anything to have those fights again, anything to revisit the time where the only thing worth fighting for was their mum's love, anything to go back to the time when they were all young, and innocent, and free, and alive. He didn't care if it was a time where he was teased, or loathed, or abhorred. He just wanted that time back. He just wanted to actually have siblings to hate him with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.

He was jolted from his thoughts when he realised he had reached the park. Two children were playfully running through it, the boy with his family's rations tucked neatly under his arms, the girl with two satchels containing their gas masks. A young couple were strolling arm-in-arm through the trees that somehow still stood tall, despite the devastation but a few streets away. The man was in uniform, clearly enjoying his last few moments with his lover before leaving to do his duty.

Arthur bitterly chewed his lip as he took his customary seat on the bench that overlooked the pond. There were no ducks now. All those years ago, when the Kirkland clan had left church, their mother had taken them here. Arthur had always sat beside her on the bench, admiring the fluffy little birds that swam up and down. Scott would always end up pushing Rhys in, each time claiming it was accidental, each time receiving an angry glare from Fiona, who did sometimes like to act big sisterly, but mainly just did it because she disliked Scott.

Every time they came to the park near the church, and sat by the duck pond, some form of disaster struck; Scott would argue viciously with Fiona, Rhys would get lost or hurt himself or, most likely, get hurt by Scott. There had even been one time Scott had decided to teach Arthur how to swim… The Brit hadn't stepped foot in any water other than his bathtub since.

And yet, they always came, every Sunday, and Arthur was glad of that, because it provided him with the sanctuary to revisit now. It gave him a place to escape, a place where the only sounds were that of his past. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Rhys screaming as Scott-

Wait a minute.

His green eyes shot open, and he stood up, shocked. Because it wasn't Rhys he could hear screaming. Not at all. There was actually someone who seemed to be almost yelling with joy.

There was only one possibility as to who could be yelling with joy. Obviously it was one of the only people whose spirits were yet to be broken by this endless war, by the battle at the home front. And those were, of course, the American soldiers.

Arthur inwardly groaned. He respected the Americans, and what they were doing to help with the war effort and all, but God, they didn't half annoy him. He had yet to actually speak to any of them, but he had overheard a good deal of their conversations whilst going about his business, business that just happened to coincide with a time when they were doing nothing (which seemed to Arthur to be a good deal of the time), and their optimism was possibly the most irritating thing he had ever heard.

However he couldn't actually see said American making said noise-

With alarming force, Arthur felt himself tumble. He felt his entire body freeze as the fall gained more and more momentum, and he felt his leg touch something cold and wet and most definitely not the water in his bath. His stomach dropped as he hit the surface of the pond, which was really too dark and too deep to be called a pond, and should've been called an abyss into Hell, or another equally demonic, bottomless pit-esque name.

As he went completely under the water, his only thoughts were how pathetic he was. Britain was at war with Germany, and he was going to drown at home. In London. In a bloody duck pond.

What the hell were they going to carve onto his gravestone? "He couldn't do his bit for his country, so he died in his country instead. In a duck pond."

It was the most pathetic death imaginable. In fact, Arthur thought it was so pathetic, it was worthy only of the French.

He did try to flail his arms around a little bit, and made some rather impressive splashes, but then thought to himself, "Sod it, I'm going to die anyway, why make a big deal out of it? Why even bother?" And he promptly gave up. This only added to the patheticness of the whole ordeal, and he found himself musing that this death had perhaps surpassed even the French now, and would be only fitting of a Franco-Italian. Or, of course, Arthur Kirkland.

Ah. That was a far more fitting epitaph. "Arthur Kirkland, 1919-1942. Hated brother, died a death so pathetic that the French and the Italian would get together and laugh at how pathetic it was."

It was as everything was starting to go black that he felt his numb waist grabbed by something that felt an awful lot like an arm. Or maybe it was Death himself, wrapping his arms around Arthur, and dragging him down to the bottom of the abyss of a pond.

Oh God, Arthur was going to Hell. It was unnatural to hate the French as much as he did, especially during peacetime.

And the next thing he knew, he was leaning against the side of the pond, retching, water pouring out from his hair, his clothes, his mouth and ears, and an obnoxiously American accent was asking him if he was alright.

He couldn't even bring himself to answer. He pulled himself from the pond with numb arms, shivering in the brisk British breeze.

"Sir," the American repeated, sounding unimpressed with the fact he hadn't answered him the first time, "Are you alright?"

"Do I bloody look alright to you?" Arthur hissed loud and venomously. He brought his enraged and water dripping eyes to meet those of the American, intending on saying something spiteful and cruel, completely ignoring the fact that this man had just saved his life, but found himself momentarily stunned by how blue they were. He then coughed and angrily yelled, "I nearly died!"

"Ah," the American smiled. "But you didn't, did you? 'Cuz I totally saved your ass, just like the rest of America is gonna do for this pathetic rainy country you got here!"

Arthur gritted his teeth, slowly observing his surroundings. The American seemed to have shed his clothes before jumping in to rescue him, so he couldn't have been in too much of a hurry. Arthur noticed a jacket, like the ones pilots wore, a tie, and another form of suit jacket lying discarded around the bench. "Pathetic rainy country?" he repeated, his voice rising in a steady crescendo. "Pathetic rainy country? You just remember which bloody language you speak before you go around calling someone's bleeding home a pathetic rainy country! Especially when that "pathetic rainy country" has been fighting Germany on its own for three sodding years!"

"Dude," said the American, whom Arthur really should've learnt the name of, in order to better insult him as he spoke, "calm down. No need to get so worked up about it."

Arthur just glared at him. "I'll calm down," he snarled, "when you bleeding Americans actually accomplish something for this war, because let's be honest; you're not here to rescue Britain, oh no, you'd like to let that "pathetic rainy" island get destroyed by the Germans, wouldn't you? You're just here for revenge against Japan."

The American's face darkened. "Don't joke about things like that," he said, his voice oddly serious. "I lost people, good, honest people-"

"And you think I haven't?" hissed the Brit, feeling no shame in interrupting the man. "You think the bombs have magically avoided every civilian? You think no one has died?"

The American shook his head. "Of course people have died." The humour was still missing from his words, though the tone seemed slightly different, lighter even. "But I'm here to put a stop to it. I'm here to prevent anyone else from dying, and that includes you, sir."

Arthur tsked, and folded his arms against his sopping wet clothes. The American seemed like an insufferable idiot. Not that Arthur was one to judge by appearance- he hadn't come to this conclusion by taking in the man's gleaming blue eyes, or his arrogant smile, or his slightly damp, clearly blonde hair. No, Arthur knew this man would be an idiot because he was American.

When Arthur didn't reply, the American sighed. "What's your name, sir?" he asked.

Arthur took a deep breath in, and tried to calm down. "Kirkland," he replied. "Arthur Kirkland."

The American began to smile, revealing slightly pointed, very white teeth. "You might want to take off your soaking clothes, Mr Kirkland."

"What about you?" Arthur scowled.

Confusion flickered over the man's face. "You want me to take my pants off?"

The Brit felt his scowl deepen, and he shook his head, feeling a light heat begin to tickle his cheeks. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Jones, Alfred F." The American then proceeded to read out his position, regiment and whatnot, all the while saluting, and staring at something behind Arthur, something the Brit himself could not see.

"Right, quite enough of that, Jones," Arthur cut off his small speech, and did as he was told, shaking, wet fingers that were usually so nimble and quick, unbuttoning stubborn buttons that linked the two sides of his waterlogged tweed jacket together. When he finally managed to remove it, he folded it, now heavy with water, and rested it over the crook of his elbow. However Alfred, the American, stared at him, as though he wasn't quite satisfied.

"What?" Arthur asked, growing hot and uncomfortable under the man's gaze.

Alfred shrugged. "I just thought you might want to take a little more off."

Arthur scowled, bit his lip, and the once again did as he was told, ripping off his tie, and peeling his sweater vest over his head. This was no small feat- it had decided to get stuck to his shirt, and, as he pulled it off, it disrupted his shirt, which had been neatly tucked into his trousers.

Alfred continued to look at him, as if he expected Arthur to strip down to his underwear. The Brit scowled. "You're soaked too," he mumbled.

The American shrugged. "I kinda did just jump into a freezing cold puddle and save your life."

Arthur grit his teeth at the American's description of the never-ending chasm of water that had come so close to claiming his life. "I suppose you're expecting a thank you for that."

Alfred scratched the back of his neck. "That would be nice, but I don't expect a reward or nothing. I'm a hero; saving people's what I do."

There was a pause as Arthur considered this, and contemplated how to reply. "Anything," he finally said. "You aren't expecting a reward or anything."

"'S what I said, sir," Alfred nodded, missing the fact that Arthur had been correcting his grammar, and not seeking a confirmation on the fact.

"Yes, quite," Arthur narrowed his gaze. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose the least I can do is provide you with dry, clean clothes until yours are fit to wear again."

Alfred shook his head. "You don't have to, sir, I-"

"You just saved my life," Arthur folded his arms against his wet chest. "I should at least try and make it up to you."

"By offering me your clothes?" The American began to laugh. "No offence, British dude, but you're like, half my size. There's no way your clothes will fit me. And even if they do, you dress like my grandpa-"

Arthur was now very tempted to withdraw his offer. "Just follow me," he growled, his removed clothing folded over his arm, before spinning on his heel and leaving the way he came. He could hear the American quickly step towards where his own discarded clothing lay, grab it, then follow behind, his long legs finding no trouble with keeping the Brit's steady, brisk pace.

Arthur rented a room above a café not far from his old church. However, with American in tow, he decided he didn't want to pass that building, and so took a longer route. Every now and again, he'd shake his head at a familiar pile of rubble; the sweet shop with the owner who always gave his sister a discount, the post office he'd used to send the letter informing his siblings of their mother's death, the hotel his parents had worked and met at in their youth.

As he pushed open the door, the café owner's daughter looked up from some legal looking document, hopeful, desperate for a customer. "It's just me," Arthur greeted her, watching her face fall with disappointment.

"Dude, I thought we were going to your house. Why're we in a café?" asked Alfred, obliviously. Arthur received a strange look from the brunette at the other end of the room, and smiled apologetically.

"This is where I live, Alfred," he explained slowly, with patience.

"You live in a café?" Alfred repeated, astonished. The owner's daughter snorted, the force causing her glasses to slip down her nose. She pushed them up and regained her composure under one of Arthur's famous glares.

She didn't ask why he was wet. She was used to his strange behaviour by now.

"No," the Brit spoke through clenched teeth, "I live in a rented room above it."

Alfred nodded in understanding. The shorter blonde was leading the taller to the door located at the back of the café, the one that led to the kitchen, when he was stopped by the owner's daughter, who said, eyes still on whatever she was studying, "There's a letter here for you, Arthur. Look's very official. I'd wager it's from the War Office." She extended her arm, holding the letter out to the blonde, who snatched at it almost hungrily. "Careful," she continued. "It might not be the news you're expecting. Mum says if one of yours has died, you aren't to bring alcohol into your room, not after what happened last time-"

"Yes, thank you," Arthur cut her off in a sharp yet pleasant manner, and proceeded to lead Alfred through the empty kitchen, and up the stairs at the back, to the second floor.

"It isn't very busy, is it?" Alfred noted.

"It's a miracle this place is still standing," Arthur began. "Took a nasty hit to the foundations in a raid last year, and yet didn't fall. Still hasn't fallen. But that's not why there isn't anyone here; there isn't anyone to be here. The men are fighting, the women doing their part, the children in the countryside. A couple of Americans have popped in once or twice, but other than that-"

"Shame," mumbled Alfred. "This place doesn't look like too awful a place to eat food in."

Arthur found himself smiling in spite of himself. "It used to be," he reached into his soaking pocket, and rummaged through some destroyed notes, until he pulled the key to the door from it. He placed it in the lock, and the door unlocked with a click.

"Hey Arthur," Alfred asked, hesitantly following the Brit inside, "what's the address of this place?"

"Why?" he replied, staring miserably at yet another rejection to join the army- even under conscription, they still didn't want him- thinking only about brewing himself a nice warm cup of tea and changing out of his damp, wet clothes.

"Well, I leave in a few days," the American began, looking around the small living area, studying the books that were stacked in piles on the floor, peaking at the letters and documents strewn across the desk, "and you're either stupid or suicidal."

Arthur felt his mouth hang open. Alfred thought he was stupid? Something was very wrong there.

"So," Alfred continued, "I figured someone needs to keep an eye on you, make you don't fall into any more of them duck ponds. And who better to do that than me? I'm the hero!"

Clearly Alfred intended to write to him, to make sure he was alive. Arthur felt a smug smile pull at the corners of his lips. "Only one problem with that plan, Jones," he stated.

"Oh?" Alfred blinked. "And what might that be?"

"I assume you wish to keep in contact via letters, is that correct?"

The blonde bobbed his head. "Yes sir, it is."

This was when Arthur's grin had become it's smuggest. "Forgive me for asking," he began, "but are you actually literate?"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So, some of you may know that I've been planning on writing a collab fic with the writer "bobness" for quite a while now. This is the prologue to the awesomeness that this story is sure to be.

Contrary to this, the rest of the story is going to be a letter fic. Woot to that. Expect weekly updates, every Saturday.

It's set in WWII, in case you couldn't tell. It's title comes from the name of a Vera Lynn song; From The Time You Say Goodbye (The Parting Song). It seemed apt. Google it, it's one of my favourite Vera Lynn songs.

Hope you enjoyed! Be sure to check out some of my other stories, and, of course, those of bobness, if you've never read any of them. I'd pop a link here, but I'm not entirely sure it'd work, and the website might get mad with me, so you could either search the name, or click onto my profile, and find her via the Favourite Author List there.

Until next time, thanks for reading, and I'll see you all soon, hopefully.


	2. 21st December, 1942

December 21st, 1942

Arthur Kirkland,

I'm not really sure how to start off this letter. Most guys around here are all writing, "I love you, Celia," or some shit like that, but since you're not Celia and I don't love you, I figured that wouldn't work. So maybe I'll just start off by saying hello. Except I already started off by writing something about Celia, so never mind that.

How's life going for you? Falling in any more duck ponds? Maybe you secretly wish to _be_ a duck? You know, some people want to be a bird so they can get away from all the troubles in the world, since birds can fly, but maybe you decided to break away from the crowd and become a duck. Ducks fly. And I think they're labeled as birds. Anyway, I assume that if you're reading this, you haven't fallen in any more ponds. Or you did and some other American soldier rescued you. Ha, how many penpals do you got in the army?

Not much is going on in my life at the moment. Mostly training. I mean, I thought I had enough of it back in America, but they expect us to do it all the time here, too. Not that I'm complaining. I mean, sure, it would be nice to actually get started fighting and rescue the rest of Europe 'cause, you know, when you sign up for war, you expect to fight. But these official-guys probably know what they're doing. That's why they're the ones who tell us what to do and how many pushups to give them and how exactly to fold our bedsheets. Which is actually annoying. I mean, when I go out and start fighting, am I going to be all, like, concerned about how my sheets are folded? Nope. But, whatever. All I can do is act like the good army boy that I am!

They do allow us to hang out when we're not training and stuff. I looked around for one, but there aren't any duck ponds here, so I guess this means my heroic rescue missions I was so planning on doing are a no-go. I'll just have to wait until I can visit you again. I have no idea when I'll be able to do that, though. They seem kind of iffy about giving the men a leave and, considering that I just got here, I don't think asking them about it will go over so well. They've already yelled at me enough for making jokes when I wasn't supposed to be making jokes, haha.

But they won't kick me out. I'm being on my best behavior (I really am, I think they should be proud of me rather than yell at me for giggling when they say something funny) and I really am working hard. The captain told me I had a lot of stamina, which is a real good thing for soldiers to have. They push me harder 'cause of that, though, but if it gets me stronger, it's okay. I don't mind.

I kind of feel like this letter has gone WAY off track. Like, I can write to my family back in America just fine. You know, the usual, "Hey, how are you, how's Aunt So-and-So, is my doggy okay and does my kitty miss me," stuff. And with you I'm all over the place. Mainly 'cause I know, like, nothing about you. So in your next letter to me (at least, I hope you'll mail some back to me- otherwise I'll feel silly for spending this long thinking about what to write, haha), tell me more about yourself, and then I can tell you more about MYSELF and we'll be friends then and writing will be easier for me!

And I'm going to go deliver these letters now. I got two to send out, this one and the one I was talking about that's for my family. Remember, write back and don't keep falling into ponds, Artie! If I'm not there to save you, who knows what will happen?

Your Hero,

Alfred F. Jones


	3. 27th December, 1942

Sunday, December 27th, 1942

Captain A. F. Jones,

Firstly, allow me to thank you for informing me that I am neither Celia nor the object of your affections. I had been dreadfully confused about this, and am unaware how I have managed to go some twenty-three years without a heroic genius like you pointing this fact out to me. I feel strangely indebted to you now, hence why I am replying to your letter. I must admit, I debated whether or not to dignify you with a response, but came to the conclusion that it would be ungentlemanly not to write you a letter in return; you did save my life, after all. Although I still maintain that you pushed me into that bloody pond. I hope that answers your question about my desires to be a duck, git.

Or maybe I'm lying? Maybe I spend all my free time wallowing in duck ponds, hoping I'll suddenly sprout feathers and a beak. Of course, my duck impersonation would improve drastically if my swimming skills were substantial, which we can assume they're not, due to the unfortunate incident in which I almost drowned. I believe you were there. As for penpals, you would be my only one. There used to be other soldiers with whom I was in regular correspondence, but it's just you now. And yourself? Are you just writing to your family and me?

I suppose I should enquire into your wellbeing. Army life sounds frightfully boring from what you've described, but I trust it suits you well? In many ways, you should consider yourself lucky; you're less likely to die horrifically during training. However, while you're in training you must remember that these men are your superiors, and they are not to be argued with or questioned. With respect, you seem like the sort of obnoxious idiot who would assume they were better than everyone else, and get themselves into some form of trouble, earning a harsh punishment while they're at it.

Anyway, no matter how dull your training may seem, it's rather hypocritical for someone with a life as mundane as my own to comment on it. I wager it won't be long until you're lost in the "thrill" of warfare. What exactly do you do when you're not training? I only ask because "hanging out" isn't the most specific of terms. It does, however, imply that you're making friends amongst those you are training with, which is good. It wouldn't do for one to have to put so much trust in men one does not get on well with. Concerning your leave, they did allow you a Christmas free of training, didn't they? I find it hard to believe that they wouldn't.

In regards to your inquiry about myself, I am- at least, I was- an English teacher. However, one finds it difficult to teach a vacant classroom. Most of my class were evacuated to the countryside. Occasionally one or two of them write to me, via the school. It's always so wonderful to know they're still alive, and have yet to be claimed by this war. I imagine were some of them still in London, they would have died long ago. Presently, due to my current state of almost-unemployment, I'm performing odd jobs and attempting to help the war effort in any way I can. I hope that satisfies you, and if not, you won't be getting any more until I know the slightest bit more about you.

Do you come from a large family then? Are there a lot of relatives, over in America, all worried about your safety? You should do them a favour, Jones, and try not to get yourself blown up. For their sakes. I'd like nothing more than to see the back of you, and, consequently, the entire duck pond incident.

Furthermore, if you decide to reply to this letter, which I bloody well hope you do, seeing as how this whole moronic "friendship" was your idea, I sincerely hope you don't include anything more about duck ponds. Contrary to your beliefs, I do not make a habit of falling into them, and I wouldn't even have fallen into one the day we met if a certain American hadn't been running around like a madman, and pushed me in. Don't even attempt to deny it, Jones, you pushed me.

With contempt,  
Arthur Kirkland


	4. 4th January, 1943

January 4th, 1943

Arthur Kirkland

I didn't push you. I bumped you and you went flying. I think it's because you're just really frail. And tiny. Hey, maybe while I'm gone, you should take some swimming lessons. It shouldn't be too hard- you do live on an island, after all, so there's water everywhere. Besides, swimming might help you gain some sort of muscle on your body. Though I think that the rations you're on might have something to do with your size. Sorry. Hope you're eating well (and, if you're eating fish, that just proves my point about you wishing to be some sort of aquatic bird).

If you don't mind me asking, what happened to all the other soldiers you were in correspondence with? And who were they? If they were close to you and my assumption is right, then you have my deepest apologies. And, as for your question, yeah, it's just you and my family. I have a few friends back home in America, but I just tell my brother to make sure to inform them of how I'm doing. Most of my friends, though, also joined the army and I have no clue where they are. My mother is sending back letters and tells me if she hears of any deaths. A few people I knew personally have been killed, but my close friends are doing swell, as far as I know.

Army life does suit me well. I think these guys are whipping me more in shape, too. We just got a British general come in and he really doesn't put up with shit. I think he's seen a lot more, since he'll tell us stories if we don't do something right, and a lot of those stories are rather morbid. And, even though he did punish me once or twice, he told me I was an excellent pilot, so I guess I'm doing something right. I do like flying. I really do. Some of the training we have to do is tough, but I'm pretty damn good at what I do, just because I enjoy it so much. Of course, I reckon it'll be a lot different on an actual battlefield, huh?

I'm actually wondering what you do for fun. Other than drown in ponds. As for myself, they allow us to go into the town every so often, but not for too long. They have to give us this hour-long lecture before we do, though, to remind us not to be so loud, not to criticize anyone, not to mess with anything, not to sexually harass any of the pretty ladies, stuff like that. Some of my friends break the rules, but I try my best to keep to them. Mainly because they're always reported and told that they aren't allowed to go into town for a while. I've seen that happen twice already, and since I'd really like to be one of the best here, I stick to the rules (something I've never done much before, ha). They gave us a few days off for Christmas, and my friends and I exchanged presents. Most of them gave me silly, homemade gifts, but I bought everyone the same thing- coin purses from this little girl I saw in town one day. I felt bad for her, since she looked homeless and poor and I doubted she had much of anything, so I just bought the entire thing from her and gave her all the money I had on me (which wasn't much, in case you're wondering). She seemed happy with it, almost like I had given her a present, and that was really all I cared about. How about you? Was your Christmas okay? Did you get anything? Also, I wanted to wish you a happy New Year! This will be a good year, I can sense it!

It's cool that most of your students are all safe! Yeah, we saw some pictures from the bombings you guys had and it didn't look pretty. And you're an English teacher? Hey, that's why you sound so fancy. I just thought it was because you were stuck-up. What grade did you teach? I can't imagine you having much patience around little children, so I guess you probably taught high school students. I remember my high school years. It was fun back then. And good for you for helping the war effort! I think we need all the help we can get- I've heard nasty stories of the battles that have taken place already and I don't want any more losing on the Allied side. We'll win this and we'll win this good!

I'm not from too big of a family. I got Dad and Mom and Mattie, my little brother (not little by much). And I don't really see my relatives all too much, except for my grandparents and my dad's sister-in-law (her husband died just a few weeks before he was to be shipped out to fight in the Pacific, actually- a car crash. Imagine that.), and all of them are proud of me. Mom's real worried, of course, and she's always sending me stuff and trying to tell me to stay safe. You'd better not turn into another Mom, you hear? Don't worry none, I already know not to get myself blown up. I'm not that stupid.

Look. I replied. And now we have a better friendship and I even know more about you and you know more about me! See how fun this is? I bet you're happy to have another soldier as your penpal. And, again, I didn't push you- I bumped you. Big difference there, Arthur!

Without contempt,  
Alfred F. Jones


	5. 12th January, 1943

Tuesday, January 12th, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

As I'm sure you are well aware, we are in the middle of a war. It is hardly the time to suggest one takes up swimming lessons, of all things. What form of idiocy is that? I live in a city, and a city that has been heavily bombed. Quite frankly, I'm lucky I was alive for you to push me into that bloody pond- note how I said pushed, because I was. I highly doubt being able to swim is going to help me achieve anything in life. And even if it would benefit me, I have no desire to ever immerse myself in any water other than that of my bathtub. Furthermore, I don't appreciate your remarks on my size. I'm not nearly as small as you make me out to be. And if you're going to blame it on anything, don't blame it on the rations that feed men twice my size, blame it on my siblings. I'd like to see you live as the youngest of five for eleven years and not have your growth stilted by it.

There were three others before you; two of them my brothers, and the third an old family friend, a Frenchman. I lost one of my brothers in 1940. I have no idea of the whereabouts of the other two. I haven't heard from Francis- that's the Frenchman- since '39, so I assumed the worst. As for my other brother, he came home on leave with injury, and hasn't contacted me since. I think he shipped out again last summer, but I won't know for certain until the telegram declaring him dead comes through, I suppose. I'm glad to hear that your friends and family are doing well, although you seem like the person who would have more than a few friends. Are you sure there isn't a Celia at home, waiting for your declaration of undying love to come through the post, praying you'll come home safe so you can take her out dancing, or whatever it is couples do?

My father fought in the Great War, and the stories he used to put us to bed with were terrifying. Of course, they didn't stop any of us from enlisting. I can imagine the sort of tales this General may recount to you, especially if he's a pilot. Aircrafts have been heavily relied on thus far.

Fun? I've been so focused on other things recently- we all have- that I've barely had time for it. I suppose I read. And, much as I hate to put it in writing, I quite enjoy writing these letters to you, Jones. It reminds me of my childhood, of when I first started writing to Francis; the thrill of receiving the letter, the scent of foreign paper, the thought required to reply, and the anxiety that came with waiting for the next letter, the period in which your mind wonders as you try to remember what you've written, and how exactly it will be replied to. You must always stick to the rules, Jones, and I'm very glad that this time you did; it almost sounded as though you'd been that child's hero this Christmas. My Christmas, however, was far less eventful. My landlord invited me to eat with his family, and my younger brother wrote to me, for once, which I suppose was nice. He's been evacuated, and hasn't made contact with me since he left London, you see? Happy New Year to you, as well. I hope you're right about this year. I fail to see how things could get any worse, therefore this year, they must get better.

I have no idea what American foolishness this grade nonsense is. I teach, or rather, taught, eleven-year-olds; old enough to understand basic instructions and have a basic knowledge of the world, young enough to respect me and my authority. Although I hadn't done it for very long before they were all evacuated, so I barely had a chance to experience what teaching is like. The students were nice enough, however. And I have no idea what you're referring to, when you describe my writing as "fancy". I don't write this way because I'm "stuck up"; I write this way because I'm English. I admire your optimism, Jones, although I can't say I share your views. It took us four years to defeat Germany, one country, last time; in a matter of months, Germany defeated France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark and Norway. That's five countries. We're lucky to have made it this far.

Oh, the peaceful bliss your childhood must have been! Speaking of which, how old are you Jones? Old enough to enlist, clearly. But you have this aura of naïve, childlike innocence, which makes me think you're not old enough to enlist by much. Unless I'm wrong, and all Americans are like you, in which case, I apologise for questioning your age. As for your remark about me turning into a mirror of your mother, may I remind you which American pilot began his letter by checking that the recipient was eating well?

Yes, yes, we both know more about each other and we're making the learning jolly good fun. Oh, I don't know what glorious ray of sunshine filled my abysmally grey days before you pushed me into a pond and almost killed me, Jones. It's a shame you aren't here now, to save me from drowning in all this sarcasm.

With apathy,  
Arthur Kirkland


	6. 19th January, 1943

January 19th, 1943

Arthur Kirkland,

So, you just don't like water? Are you scared of it? If you are, you should probably take my advice and go for swimming lessons. And if no one will give them to you, try drowning yourself some more and see if another dashing, young soldier will come to your aid. If you do it enough, perhaps you can save yourself one day! Being able to swim will help you do loads of things. What if you're on a ship and it sinks? You need to be able to swim to land or a lifeboat or something. But, if you don't want to, I'm not going to force you to. Doubt I could, what with being miles away. The best I can do is yell at you over the mail, haha. Geez, five siblings? That's a ton! How the hell did you survive living with five siblings? Older siblings, at that. I'm sure I get on my brother's nerves all the time, and I'm barely older and just one sibling, anyway.

You lost contact with two of your brothers? Man, I'm sorry about that. That's tough. They might still be alive somewhere, though. Maybe a prison camp. If you want, I can ask around for you. Doubt I'll be able to do much with the Frenchie, though. Most of them are killed. Not to sound mean or anything, but I just don't think I'll be able to help you out there. I'm really sorry, though. It must be tough losing friends like that. You don't have to worry none about me, though! I'm strong and I'll pull through this! Nope, no Celia. I did date one girl back in high school, though. She fell out of love with me super-fast and told me we should just be friends. So all the guys tease me 'cause I'm single and haven't slept with anyone, but who needs that, right? Besides, I have plenty of time when I get back to America.

Did you enlist in the army? I remember you getting some sort of letter the day I met you, so I suppose you did. Why can't you come and fight? We could always use the help. Do you really smell my letters? Strange. But, if you want, I can start rubbing different stuff all over the paper so you can sniff something new each time you get it. Here, I'll rub it in my hair and you can catch a whiff of my shampoo, maybe. Try smelling it right now. Damn straight I was that little girl's hero! I want to be everybody's hero! If I could just make life better for all the innocent people in the world, I'd feel perfect. That's my New Year's Resolution- be a hero to everyone. So far, I've got you and that little girl. But since I'm in the army, it shouldn't take too long to save some more people. You ate at that place where you live? Cool. And how's your brother doing? Why isn't he contacting you? Isn't he worried about being apart during the bombings? I thought families were supposed to stick together.

So I think that would be fifth grade, about. Maybe sixth. Somewhere in elementary school. I didn't picture you as the sort to teach that age, though. I was thinking more of a professor of some sort. Oh, are all English people stuck up, then? I know the French are, from what I've seen of some of them. Maybe it's just Europeans in general. But mostly the British. The few British guys training with us are a bit like you, except they warmed up to our 'American stupidity' (that's what they said), and now we all hang out a lot. It's nice. And don't be such a downer! You guys won the First World War pretty quickly after we joined! And, if all goes as planned, I'll be back home by next year. We'll still be in contact, I hope. I like writing letters to you! Your answers are always real funny.

No, no, I am kind of young. I'm eighteen- just the exact age to sign up and fight. They would have let me come even if I wasn't eighteen, though, since I'm pretty fit and determined and a lot of other guys were skinny and not ready, I guess. I'll be turning nineteen in July, though. July Fourth! Isn't that awesome? I share the same birthday as my country does! We used to shoot off fireworks back home, but I guess we won't be able to now. I just really hope I won't be having to fight on my birthday. You know how awful that would be? And I'm just worried about you because you're so scrawny! Besides, my way of asking is a friendly way. Yours is more of a motherly way.

See, like I said, you're funny! I didn't know the British people could make jokes. I seriously just thought they wore top hats and went around saying British words. Speaking of which, you got a top hat? If so, I wanna see it once I get a vacation from this place!

With impatience,  
Alfred F. Jones


	7. 25th January, 1943

Monday, January 25th, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

I am not scared of water. The idea itself is ludicrous. I would be in a fair amount of trouble were I scared of water; it has a habit of falling from the sky more often or not here in England. I merely fail to see the point in learning how to swim, as I have no intention of spending a prolonged amount of time in lakes, rivers, or the ocean itself. Furthermore, in years past, there have been many ships captained by one who could not swim; if seafaring men saw no need to learn how to swim, then why should I? They spent their lives at sea, I intend to live out mine on land. I suppose that if I am ever on a sinking ship, as you speculated, then my complete lack of interest in the art of swimming will be deeply regretted. In all honesty, half the time I don't believe I survived a childhood with five older siblings; sometimes, I expect to wake up and find out this entire war was just some horrid nightmare, and I'm still nine-years-old, still attempting to force my way through childhood. Oh, if only the end of this war was as easy to end as that.

You can ask around for my brothers, if you really want to. I highly doubt it will achieve anything. I know where you'll find one of them; in one of those mass graves. I lost contact with him because he died, Jones. He died defending his country. The other… I wish I could say he doesn't write to me because he's injured, or has been captured and held behind enemy lines, but that's not the case. He doesn't write to me because he doesn't want to write to me. Losing people isn't as hard as you'd expect it to be, at least, not anymore. I suppose I've grown used to it. How is your training going, by the way? Do you know when you're actually going into action yet? I suppose you couldn't tell me, even if you did. I should hope you haven't slept with anyone Jones! It's completely irresponsible and reckless and wrong to sleep with someone you're not married to. Don't they teach you anything in America?

Yes, I did enlist. I believe I enlisted three times. Originally, I was rejected because I wasn't deemed able-bodied. They thought I was too weak to fight in the army. I thought they'd have to take me on now, what with the conscription laws and whatnot, but no. Now I've been deemed not of able mind. I didn't mean it literally, Jones. I don't smell your letter as one would smell a scented plant or flower; it's like when you open a new book for the first time, and you can't help but smell its aroma. I wish you luck with your quest to become a hero, and my brother's doing rather well, from what I've heard. He doesn't appear to be worried about anything; in all honesty, I think he prefers the village where he's staying to here, and the family he's with far more than us. I imagine normal families stick together, Jones, normal families who love and care about each other. However, my family is slightly abnormal in the fact that we all hate each other.

I'm hardly old enough to be a Professor. I'm not entirely sure I'd want to be, anyway; the older the student, the more likely they are to contradict you. I have no idea what you're talking about. The English are not stuck up at all. If they act superior, it's merely because they are superior. Especially superior to your "American stupidity", as the men you train with so nicely put. It's different this time, Jones. Germany is much stronger than she was during the Great War. But, if we do win this war, and we both make it out alive, then I suppose it wouldn't be too much of a burden to continue writing to you. However, I have no idea why you find my letters amusing. They're not meant to be.

Only eighteen… I hope you're merely young, as opposed to young and stupid. I've seen a fair few lads your age throw away their lives in the hope of obtaining glory. Although you don't seem like you're doing this for the glory, for the thrill of the fight; you seem like you're going to fight for freedom because you genuinely want to help people. I imagine you won't be able to set off fireworks for your birthday this year, but as far as fighting on the fourth goes, I've heard that it's hard to keep track of the date while fighting. That being said, you're the first pilot I've been in correspondence with, so it might be different for you.

Not that I can remember my previous letter by heart, but I don't recall making a joke at any point in it. I don't understand how I'm amusing you so; it's not my intention, I assure you. The language is called English, Jones. You speak it too. And as a matter of fact, I might have a top hat lying around somewhere. I wore one for my brother's wedding, though I don't recall what happened to it afterwards. Perhaps I sold it. Maybe it wasn't even mine in the first place, I might've rented it. If you enjoy the concept of top hats that much, perhaps you should consider renting one of them when you're next in the area.

Unable to smell your shampoo,  
Arthur Kirkland


	8. 2nd February, 1943

Tuesday, February 2nd, 1943

Arthur Kirkland,

Swimming is still a real good skill to have, though! What if you get caught in a flood? Like you said, it rains all the time in Britain, so wouldn't you guys have some floods to go with it? I know even we got floods back in the good old States sometimes, but that was only when a whole bunch of rain fell from the sky. Is it more like a steady drizzle in England, or does it just dump the water wherever it sees fit? And sailors didn't know how to swim? That's stupid. Did they expect the boat not to sink, or were they just so good that no boats ever sank? What about drowning? Aren't you scared of drowning? You nearly did drown, if you don't remember, and that was just a duck pond! If I hadn't been there to rescue you, I bet you'd be long gone. I think everyone wishes they were a kid again, where our biggest regrets were acting up in class and having to have your knuckles hit before being sent to sit in the corner or the classroom. That was humiliating.

Oh, man, I'm really sorry about that. I didn't think about death and such. I really apologize. As for the other one, is he just a jerk or something? People are supposed to stick together during these times. If I didn't write to my own family, I know they'd be upset. I'd break their hearts. If I ever find some British soldier with the last name of Kirkland, I'll tell him for you. Only if you want me to, of course. Yeah, I'm not allowed to tell you when or where I'll be fighting, just in case this letter falls into the wrong hands (though I'm not sure they'd want to read letters about swimming and death, unless they're really bored or searching for information), but I am able to tell you that I'll be going out very soon. Before your letter to this comes in the mail. Hell, maybe even before you get this letter. I don't know how fast the post is during war. Hey, I told you I never slept with anyone, and I didn't! The guys here don't think it's wrong, though. And maybe they're right. I mean, sure, it would be better to sleep with your wife or something, but it's just for fun. It gets their mind off of war. And it would get my mind off, too, if I wasn't so worried about the fact that I might get her pregnant or she has some sort of disease or she's actually an enemy spy.

I don't think you're weak, in the body or in the mind. Sure, you could use some lessons on getting toughed up, but I think you'd be a damn good solider. You'd probably be the sort that follows every order exactly and continues getting promoted until you're able to order every other solider around. Plus, you seem pretty smart, what with the way you write your letters and all, so I don't see any reason for them holding you back. Well, I still think you should smell my letters. This letter should smell like my trusty jacket. Which isn't anything special, but I think my jacket has a normal sort of smell to it. Does this letter smell normal? If you're brother's happy, I guess you can't do anything to bring him back to live with you. And I guess this means he's safe from the bombings. Why does your family all hate each other? Families shouldn't hate. That's just wrong, Artie.

I was an older student and I didn't contradict my teachers! They just punished me for being reckless and silly, they said. Although they've been asking about me recently. Mom actually told me that two of my old teachers came by the house to ask about my well-being, which I thought was really sweet of them. You should be like that, if you were to become an English professor. The British aren't superior to the Americans! We just talk different, that's all, and you guys must have developed some fancy way of talking after we gained our independence from you. And we'll win this war. There's no way we're going to lose to Germany! Sure, they might be strong and all, but now that the Americans are fighting, I'll bet everything will be over in a couple more months! The other guys tell me that I'm just too optimistic, but I can't help but feel everything will turn out all right. Do you know what I mean? It has to turn out alright. I don't want to continue fighting for two or three or ten more years in the future. I'll be old by then! And your letters are super amusing! They're one of the only entertaining things to read around this area, unless you find mechanical books on the inner working of a plane enjoyable. Which none of us do, so practically everyone is writing letters.

I'm not going to throw my life away! I'm too young to stop living now. I'm going to win this war and fight all the nasty Germans here in Europe that I can, and then I'll go home to America and spend the rest of my days doing some sort of work and simply living life knowing that I helped save the entire world from the evil Germans. Yeah, no fireworks this year. And no cake. I'm a bit upset about that, because 19 is a big age to turn and I'd like to celebrate it in some way. At least I can count on you to send me letters, though? And your letters remind me of the date. That, and I keep a calendar inside my plane.

You were sarcastic or something and made a joke about you being happy. Which I found hilarious! Because it was clear that you really weren't happy, that you were just being sarcastic. Of course I speak it! We all speak it in America! You just speak a different sort of English. I speak the best version, the American version. But I like your version, too, because you say your words neat and you even write them down neat. People can rent top hats? Once I get a leave, I'm coming to visit you and you're going to help me rent a top hat to wear around for my stay, alright? And you can find your old one, or rent a new one, either way, and we can wear top hats together and people will probably think we're both British and I'll even talk with a British accent! Won't it be fun?

Practicing British accents,  
Alfred F. Jones


	9. 11th February, 1943

Thursday, February 11th, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

As much as I appreciate your concern, I don't think there will be a flood any time soon, Jones. And even if there was, I don't live by the river, so I'd wager I'd be more than safe if it ever reached the point that it overflowed. Rain just tends to be a constant here, but sometimes, yes, the Heavens part and we're completely bombarded- I've just realised how awful that metaphor is, especially as now, we literally are bombed. I'm not scared of drowning, Jones, especially when the chances of that occurring are so incredibly slim. And as for the sailors who couldn't swim, you should understand that feeling more than anything. Can you fly? I highly doubt it. And yet you're a pilot. Do you see my point? Oh, fancy that, having only your knuckles whipped. We used to get our palms slapped with a cane or a ruler. And some of the especially cruel teachers would hit your right palm, so that, for the rest of the day, whenever you wrote, you'd be reminded of the pain, and the humiliation.

There's absolutely no need to apologise. God knows how many men have died a hero's death out there; my brother was just another one of those who will be remembered for his service to his country. I like to think he would be proud, to have died in such a manner. And Jones, the gesture is appreciated. I'm not sure how common the surname "Kirkland" is, but if you do hear anything of one who answers to that name, I'd be grateful if that information was to make its way back to me. You must understand that you come from a normal family, a family who care about each other. Don't judge my family for not having the same bonds as yours; when it comes down to it, we care about each other, and we know that, despite what we say or do. Good luck for whenever you ship out, and, I must admit, not sleeping with a woman because you're worried she might be an enemy spy is an incredibly pathetic excuse. Not that I'm condoning actions like that being performed out of wedlock, mind you. Honestly though, are you really that paranoid? I think you don't want to sleep with anyone because you're terribly romantic, waiting for the right Celia to take dancing.

The grammar in this paragraph was so awful I considered correcting it and sending it back to you. I decided not to, as you can tell. I hope to see a vast improvement in your response. Shall I give you a few pointers? I think the biggest error I found was the fact that my name is Arthur, not Artie, and yet, for some reason, it is written as such. However, I digress; I'm glad you don't think that way, but you don't work for the War Office, do you Jones? In all honesty, they're probably right. I doubt I'd last ten minutes out there. I may seem smart now Jones, but when I was younger, my mental health wasn't as stable as it could have been, and they enjoy bringing that up whenever I attempt to enlist. For God's sake, Jones, I don't smell your damn letters! How am I meant to know whether it smells like your jacket or not?! I don't even know what the bloody jacket you're going on about looks like, let alone smells like; how am I meant to make the comparison? Keep in mind that there were five of us- six if you count my younger brother, but he was born when I, the youngest, was eleven, so he didn't grow up at the same time as us, in all honesty. I think my eldest brother had already left home by then- and we were all competing for silly things, like who our mother loved most and whatnot. There was a lot of rivalry involved, and some of us had less-than-pleasant personalities. Caring was a sign of weakness. It appears that we've carried that lesson through to adulthood. I wish we'd left it behind with the games of our youth.

It's lovely that your old teachers have taken an interest in your well-being. I imagine there will be a lack of demand for Professors until years after the war is over, what with so many young men going overseas and getting themselves killed. We'll have to wait and see if you're right about the outcomes of the war. Your theory must be spot on, Alfred. There is no way that without the British telling you what to do, or how to act, your people became stupid and ignorant. Ten years from now, you'll be twenty-eight. That's only a handful of years older than I am now. I'd hardly call that old. I thoroughly hope you're not going around and showing the other men my letters, Jones. It's bad enough that one American stranger is reading these.

Too young to stop living? Oh, if only that were the case, Jones. This is a war unlike any other, countless young people have died, and, as much as I hope you're right, I must remind you there's always the chance that the next time you get in that plane could be the last. So take care. Though you may be an insufferable American git, I can tolerate you. As long as I'm able, I will send you these letters, and they will be dated; you can count on me if your calendar ever fails you.

You can detect sarcasm? I had no idea you were so skilled. I doubted you Americans even knew what it was. I feel similarly with wit and banter, but one can never be sure. If you honestly must rent a top hat, who am I to stop you? Why don't you get a monocle while you're at it? After all, you do wear glasses. I dread to think what your attempt at an English accent would sound like, but I would very much like to see you, if you do get a leave anytime in the near future, if only for the fact it would save an immense amount of paper (and money) if we were able to have a conversation face-to-face.

Horrified by the prices of paper, envelopes and stamps,  
Arthur Kirkland


	10. 20th February, 1943

Saturday, February 20th, 1943

Arthur Kirkland,

But what if a hurricane hits your little island? Then you might need to know how to swim. Either way, it's a good skill to have. I learned how at a young age, but I think that was because we just went to the beach often. You can't have fun at the beach if you don't know how to swim, right? So learn how to swim and, when I'm finished with this war, I'll take you to the beach and you can swim all you want. And there's a big difference between flying and swimming- one is impossible and the other _is_ possible. Besides, I'm a real good pilot, so I won't ever need to jump out of my plane. Did you ever have your palm hit like that? I can't believe you would. You seem like such a good student, all prim and proper and stuff. I had some friends who went to other schools and they were spanked in front of everybody. Now, I never acted _that_ bad, but I guess they did.

I think it's a shame to see so many men die like this. The worst part is, only their family will truly remember them. I mean, I know their being honored and whatnot, but not one random citizen will ever stop and say, "Hey, I remember so-and-so. He was such a good man." That's the bit that upsets me the most about this whole thing. They're just tombstones after their loved ones pass. Anyway, I haven't heard of many people named 'Kirkland', so I guess it's not all _that_ common. Might be common in Britain, though. I'll just find some British-speaking soldier and tell him and then we'll see what happens. Your family sounds interesting, to say the least. I'm not one to judge, however, but I wish that you guys were closer. I think everyone deserves closeness in this war. Your good luck helped. I've come back safe and sound. I'm not sure if I was fully prepared for it all, though. Some good men got shot down, and it's just a bit awful to know that you'll never speak with them anymore. I suppose I should get used to it, though, right? I'm not _that_ much of a romantic. Sure, it would be nice to wait for the right woman, but that's old-fashioned. I think soldiers just need something to take their mind off of all this killing, and sex seems like a good option. I've heard it's fun.

I'm sure you secretly don't mind being called 'Artie'. Do you mind if I address it as such next time I send out a letter? We're practically friends now, so I bet 'Artie' would be a friendlier term to use. And my grammar isn't all that bad! I actually ask my friends how to spell words, just so you don't get all nit-picky on me and shit. What's wrong with your mental health? You don't have to answer that if it seems too personal. I'm just a curious guy sometimes. This letter smells like my suitcase. The guys are giving me weird looks, by the way. Does this smell like a suitcase? I smelled my suitcase and it just smells normal, so I'm not sure what you'll smell. Five siblings? Damn, your parents were popping them out, weren't they? And caring certainly isn't a sign of weakness! All the guys at my school thought I was cool for watching after all the pretty girls and rescuing cats from the trees. I was a modern hero, I'll have you know, and that's all because I was caring! Of course, now I'm afraid caring will get me in trouble out here on the battlefield. It's almost as if I can't have any attachments. I know that, if one of my best friends die, I won't preform as well. Maybe you guys were right, actually.

My old teachers are very caring. I grew up in a small town, though, so I suppose they don't have much else to do but catch up. And it's not just young students going off to war. Some of the professors are, too. At least, that's what I've heard. I just think we all want a chance to avenge the American lives that were taken at Pearl Harbor. And, of course, to help our fellow allies. You guys really do need help. Americans aren't stupid or ignorant! We're actually real smart. That's the reason we pulled away from you. We learned that we don't take shit from anybody. That's also the reason we're fighting this war. See? America knows just what it's doing. I'm not sure I want to be twenty-eight. That seems like the age where I have to settle down and start a family and maybe get a desk job. Although, at this point, a desk job seems nice. Less blood. I'm the only American reading this. The guys know I'm writing to multiple people, only because they help out with my spelling. Should I let them read the letters? They might be able to fix whatever mistakes I put in here. I'm not the best writer, you see.

I'm not going to be one of those countless young people, though! Have some faith in me. I'll survive this. I'm an excellent pilot and I try my best in everything, so I'm going to make it out of this war alive. You'd better not stop mailing me. Your letters are a nice sense of reality. I know my family mails me a letter whenever they can, but since they're in America and I'm in Europe, it takes longer to arrive here. I like these speedy letters, the ones that connect me to a world outside the fighting. Also, you're not so protective like my mother is. I love her and all, but I sometimes just need to get off the topic of me not getting myself killed. I'm not sure how to explain it properly.

Ouch. We know plenty of sarcasm! My brother uses it all the time. Maybe he's part British, though, if you're claiming sarcasm to be a British thing. Do they seriously have top hat-renting stores? I was just kidding around. But, that's cool! Aren't monocles those eyeglasses that only have one thing? Like, there aren't two of them, right? How does anyone wear such a thing? I'm sure my accent will be fine. I'm practicing. The guys all say I sound obnoxious, so I guess I'm doing it right. Do you really want to see me? That's nice of you to say! I'd like to see you again, too. Once I get a leave. I'm ready to take a break for a few days, I swear I am.

Hoping you get more money,  
Alfred F. Jones


	11. 3rd March, 1943

Wednesday, March 3rd, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

I've never been to the beach. I've heard that it's enjoyable, but I have never really wanted to go, in all honesty. Mainly because of the ocean; I'm not scared of water, Jones, mark my words. I have no problem with it. I just… I suppose you could say I have a slight fear of drowning, and therefore no desire to learn to swim. I hope that ceases this notion you have of me learning to swim, ever, because I won't. I refuse. I won't list the many reasons there are as to why you would need to jump out of a plane, regardless of your own piloting ability. Contrary to your belief, I did get my palm slapped. I got my palm slapped quite frequently, actually. Not because I misbehaved, of course; I was left-handed, and whenever my teacher caught me writing with my left hand, she would slap me.

That's all we are, Jones, regardless of what we do with our lives; we all go about, living, under the impression we're making an impact on the Earth, that we're different, that we'll be remembered, but none of us will. History will even take away the names of those we think have earned eternal fame, eventually. But what those men have done, what my brother did, what you are doing, that will always be remembered. No, no one will stop and think, "Oh, thank God so-and-so fought in the war. They were a wonderful person, and it's a shame they're gone,", but people will stop, and they will think, "Thank God men fought in that war. The world is a much better place now." That is, of course, if we win. God knows how our soldiers will be remember if we lose. I don't think I've ever met a Kirkland, outside of my family, but I've never been that far from London. Interesting is one way you could describe my family, but I would have used 'broken'. I have been in correspondence with my siblings throughout this war- Hell, we've spoken more during the war than we did before. Are you alright, though? Nothing happened to you, or you aircraft? It's not old-fashioned, Jones. It's what is acceptable. Sleeping with someone before you're married is so improper it's unthinkable. But you do have a point. What do you do, to take your mind off of killing, then, if you're remaining celibate for fear of sleeping with a German spy?

My name is Arthur. That is how I prefer to be addressed. As for beginning a letter with 'Artie'… Do they teach you about manners and etiquette in America, Jones? Addressing your letter with 'Artie' is like expecting me to begin mine with 'Alfred Jones' or some such informal greeting. And I cannot believe you have to ask for help with spelling; you are eighteen, you should have learnt to spell years ago. There were a few issues when I was younger; seeing things that weren't there, talking to people that didn't exist. It's not something we talk about anymore. It smells like paper, Jones. Obviously. I wouldn't say that; it's more like what you were talking about earlier, with soldiers using sex to take their minds off war. Patrick and Fiona were born before the war, Scott and Rhys during, and myself after. I'm actually incredibly lucky to be alive; my father had more than his fair share of near death experiences during the Great War. Caring is still important on the battlefield- you need to take care for yourself, and think about how strongly you care for your family at home, and focus on getting back alive.

Well, there's another difference between us, Jones; you grew up in a small town, I grew up in my country's capital city. Every abled bodied man is meant to be fighting. It's exceptionally quiet here now. A lot of the women glare at me in the streets, or wherever I happen to be. They quite clearly hate me, for being the one who is unable to fight, instead of their husband, son, brother. That or they think I'm a coward, and hate me for not doing my part to protect them, their children, the future. Oh, know what you're doing, do you? That's what the politicians said when Chamberlin attempted to appease Germany by giving them land. They were wrong. Herr Hitler went ahead and invaded Poland anyway. No one knows what they're doing anymore, Jones; England, America, France. Hell, Germany probably doesn't even know what they're doing. No. Don't let others read this letter. The only person who should read it is the intended recipient. That's why letters have recipients.

I hope you get that desk job, when this is all over, Jones. I hope you get your desk job, and find some Celia, and get the happy ending all heroes deserve. I understand completely, about not wanting to talk about how you're fighting, or close to dying, or something along those lines; my brother wouldn't let me mention the war, and he would never write about it in his letters. He said he wanted to keep the two things separate. War. Home. Not both. Never both.

You forget that the English colonised America. There must be some English in your brother. You as well, Jones. You could probably trace your family tree back to the colonial days, if you tried. Yes, one can seriously rent top hats. I don't know why anyone would joke about that. How am I meant to know, Jones? I've never needed glasses, therefore never needed to know how one wears a monocle. I imagine it's for someone who has one strong eye, and one weak eye. You hold it. You sound obnoxious anyway; adopting an awful English accent won't change that. Do you really think I'd be writing these ridiculous letters to you if I didn't care about you somewhat? For your talk of not being stupid, you are an idiot.

Not ever planning on learning to swim, despite your argument, protest, and display of its advantages,  
Arthur Kirkland


	12. 4th March, 1943

Thursday, March 4th, 1943

Artie Kirkland,

If we want to be technical, you actually are scared of the ocean. Scared of drowning is reason enough to be scared of the ocean, isn't it? The ocean's this huge, vast thing of water. If I was scared of drowning, there would be no way in hell I'd ever go to the ocean. So, yes, I will teach you how to swim and we will go to the ocean together. You live on an island, there's sure to be plenty of oceans near you. Or we could always swim in a pond. Oh, you're left-handed? That's pretty neat! I had a left-handed friend in school when I was real young, and he was a nice kid. I think your schools were stricter than mine. Our teachers were a bit picky about which hand we wrote with, but they never slapped anyone's palm or knuckles or something because of that.

I know that. It's just, sometimes I want to be remembered. Hell, I want all of these men to be remembered. I want everyone to know their names and their ranks and what color they liked best and their plans for once they were done serving in the military, because each of these men deserve it. I deserve it, as selfish as that sounds. I'm a selfish guy, though, what can I say? And we're going to win. You really don't have much faith in us, do you? Dude, we saved your ass in the Great War, and we're going to do it again. I don't think your family is exactly broken. Maybe just confused. Maybe the war will bring you all closer together. And, yes, I was fine, mother (you really are as bad as my mom). Just a bit nervous, maybe. Still am. It's war, though. I'll get used to it. It's improper because you're old-fashioned. And you're not in the army. Whatever the case, I'm not going to do it, so you don't have to worry about that! Celia will be pleased I waited only for her. And, when not lusting after the pretty German spies (haha), I'm playing cards with some other men, training, training, training, and reading whatever books I can come across. Basically, we're just waiting for the chance to take part in another fight soon!

Too late. I already addressed the letter as 'Artie'. Oops. My pen must have slipped! Imagine that, why don't you? And, for the next letter, address me as Alfred F. Jones! We're friends now, not acquaintances. Or, if you still insist on giving me a title of some sort, put 'Hero Alfred F. Jones', thanks. Okay, I learned how to spell, but I was never good with it. The letters are hard to read sometimes. Plus, spelling was always boring in school. You talked to people that didn't exist? That's creepy, yet strangely awesome. If you want, I can tell my friends about that and see what they think of a man who talks to mysterious people. Maybe they were ghosts and spirits. Which is real creepy to even think about. I mean, I'd hate it if ghosts could talk to me. I rubbed gunpowder all over this one. It smudged a little bit of the ink, but it's still readable. I'll bet it's flammable, too. Flammable paper. Well, I'm glad you were born. Otherwise this war would probably be ten times more boring than usual. I wouldn't have been able to rescue some grumpy British guy, either, unless it was one of your siblings rather than you. I care for myself just fine! Sometimes, that's all we can do. It's either you or the other guy, right? And who do you think most of us would pick? It's a shitty way of looking at caring on the battlefield, but that's what happens. I really admire those who sacrifice themselves for their teammates, though. If it comes down to it, I want to do that. I mean, if I had to choose a way to die, that would be it.

I'll bet your city's pretty empty. When I saw it, it was pretty empty. Is it still that empty, or did you guys get some sort of population growth? Maybe some French people live with you in secret, now. I don't think you should worry about what the silly women think. If they knew more, they probably wouldn't glare at you. If it makes you feel any better, I don't view you as any less of a person simply because you aren't accepted to fight in the war. I mean, you help the war effort out and all, based on what you told me, and you want to fight, so that's got to count for something! Europe doesn't know what it's doing, you mean. You've yet to see America in action! We'll put everyone to shame, I'll bet! But friends like reading other letters. I mean, I do keep my mom's letters to myself. Letters from moms are private matters for men to work out on their own. Are you sure you don't want anyone to see how rude you are? Plus, some of your spelling is weird. They might be able to help you out, too.

Maybe I don't want a desk job, though. Seems kind of stupid to come back from the killing just to sit at a desk all day. Maybe I want to be the president of the United States! And then no one will ever have war again because I'll stop all war. I'm not sure if I want to keep it completely separate. I can't really talk to anyone else about the war. My mom is overly protective of me, and she'd probably freak out if I told her some of the shit I'm telling you, and all the guys around have heard it before, since they're experiencing the same thing, and no one really wants to mention so-and-so who died or so-and-so who lost his leg. You know what I mean, right?

I'm not English, I don't think. I'm probably a pure-blooded American. Maybe I have some sort of English in me, actually. I don't want any other blood than American and maybe English. Everyone else is just too ridiculous. I've seriously never seen top hats rented out. I knew you could rent out suits, but not top hats. Well, I have two slightly weak eyes. Luckily, it didn't stop them from allowing me to join the war. I thought it would, but they might have been desperate. And do you seriously just stand there and hold it to your eye? No wonder no one uses them anymore. I do not sound obnoxious! I sound very dashing and charming. You're just jealous. And I'm not an idiot, either! I'm just happy you care about me, even if it's only somewhat. It's very nice of you.

You're just terrified of water and very weird,  
Alfred F. Jones


	13. 13th March, 1943

Thursday, 13th March, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

I can assure you, I'm not afraid of the ocean, however I am not the "Artie Kirkland" in question. If you could give me his current address, I could relay this letter for you? Or perhaps you'd prefer it if I were to send your letter back, and you could resend it yourself. Unless, of course, I was the intended recipient? If this is indeed the case, I must beg that in future you refer to me by my name, which happens to be Arthur, and cease these ridiculous notions of teaching me how to swim. I refuse to learn. This "Artie" you wrote to may humour your foolish idea, but I am not he, and am having none of it. I don't want to read another word about how I'm scared of water, because I most certainly am not. I am not afraid of anything. Correction, Jones, I was left-handed. I'm not any more. I had it beaten out of me. In that respect, yes, my school was far stricter than yours. It probably differed in many other aspects, I imagine. You are from a foreign country, after all.

No one can ever know that, Jones; the world is far too large, and full of far too many. These men will be remembered, their names most likely carved in stone, engraved in marble. Their tombstones will be more than average gravestones. My brother told me, in one of his letters, that in the town he's been evacuated to, there is a memorial to those who were lost in the Great War. From the sounds of it, the thing is rather ostentatious, and hard to ignore. People don't know these men, but the children who grow up in a small town such as that will know their names. They will know their sacrifice. That's more than the average person is entitled to. That's more than the people who have been lost in any war previous to this were granted. Hell, Jones, I've known people who have died in these blasted raids, and it's probably a bloody great deal more than they'll be given. So be grateful. Be grateful that there will be some form of memorial for those who die fighting. Celia will indeed be glad you waited for her, however your letters are starting to cause me to fear for her; what if one of these beautiful enemy spies you're enthralled by gets to you first? Not that I know that at present you're lusting after all those German temptresses. That part of the letter was removed, and you were most likely removed from the battlefield due to your involvement with such women.

It is not based on relationship, Jones, it is a matter of respect and politeness. I expect my next letter to be addressed properly; I will be thoroughly disappointed were your hand to slip once more. Although, you do seem quite an idiot, what with your inability to comprehend basic spellings, so I don't hold out much hope. Dear God, Jones, no! Do not even think about mentioning that to anyone else. In fact, don't even speak to me about it. I have put that ungodly period behind me, and am now completely sane. Paper is flammable when it isn't decorated by gunpowder, Jones. Why would you scatter gunpowder across it anyway? What possessed you to act in such a moronic manner that you would put gunpowder on a letter? I suppose that I am glad that you are glad I was born. It's rather pleasant, to know that someone values your existence. Though I have no idea why you seem so pleased you were able to save me; if anything, you were obligated to jump in that pond, seen as it was you who pushed me in. If I had drowned, it would have been your fault. I don't think you really want to die like that, Jones. You just like the idea of dying like that, of being a hero, but deep down inside, you know that sacrificing yourself at such a young age comes second to the idea of dying after you've accomplished all you wanted in this lifetime, whatever that may be. I gather that the desk job is ruled out.

Are you trying to come across as the most idiotic simpleton imaginable? Jones, of course there are foreigners in Britain; a lot of the students who like to write to me mention there are many Belgians staying it the same town as them. Apparently there are quite a few in towns with harbours. However, the part of that question that causes you to come across as completely brainless exists in the fact you seem to expect these foreigners to be in London. What, do you think these people flee from their own countries, fearful for their lives, and say to themselves, "Oh! Let's go live in the parts of Britain that are bombed on a regular basis, and get ourselves killed!" They would glare regardless, Jones, because it's not fair on them. It's not fair that I am the one who got to stay, while their husband was forced to fight. Thank you, Jones. Some people fail to see how vital collecting scrap metal and occasionally handing out rations cards are to the outcome of this war. That's why it's a job usually left to children; even the Home Guard refuse to accept my help. I've thrown buckets of water on burning buildings, helped save lives, and then been told, "Thank you for your assistance, sir, but it was highly unnecessary. Please bugger off and don't try to help us again." Oh, yes, America knows what she's doing; taking revenge on Japan for blowing up a boatyard. That's right, isn't it? I'm not rude, Jones, and the spelling and grammar in these letters are impeccable. I am a qualified English teacher, you recall? However, these letters are addressed to you, therefore only you should read them.

You would be the President of the United States, Jones. You would have no influence over the wars the rest of the world got into. Yes, I imagine your mum would be heartbroken to read about how attracted you find yourself to these German sirens. She probably wouldn't be able to contain her disappointment, and who knows? Perhaps she'd even tell Celia, then then, poof, there goes your future with her. I'll read your letter whatever its contents is, Jones; you can write about the war if you want to, and if you don't, then you don't have to mention it. I'll honour your wishes.

I sometimes doubt that I'm completely English. I imagine I have Welsh and Irish, and most likely Scottish blood, somehow, from somewhere. And if not by blood, then by relation. I have- had in- laws from all around the British Isles. You can rent top hats; you just have to go to the right shops. I noticed you wear glasses. Is it really not an issue at all? Doesn't it cause some difficulties for you, while you're flying? What exactly is wrong with your vision, if you don't mind me asking? I made the effort to reply to yet another of your ridiculous letters, Jones, that should show you how much I care.

Not even the slightest bit jealous of your "dashing charm",  
Arthur Kirkland


	14. 21st March, 1943

Friday, March 21st, 1943

Arthur Kirkland

Geez, you sure are a grumpy little guy, ain't you? I thought addressing the letter as "Artie" would be cute, though! I mean, we're such good friends already, I honestly don't think it would matter all that much if I start calling you Artie. That's what I call you in my head. I sure as hell hope you don't call me Captain A. F. Jones in your head- that's just boring. Call me Alfie, okay? I'll bet you're afraid of something. Everyone is. Everyone has their own fears that they'd like to keep locked away forever, and you're no different. Even I have my fears. Not of swimming, of course, but the point is that you can't live a life fearing nothing. Then you'd just be an idiot, and I don't think you're an idiot, Artie. I didn't think our schools would be all that different. So, the British schools are stricter? I wonder why. The American schools are pretty strict, I would guess, but they're cool with us, even if we're left-handed.

I know no one will ever know. It was just a silly notation I had, that's all. War has made me think a lot more, appreciate the sacrifices made a lot more. Yeah, I've come across a few of those memorials myself. We don't really have a bunch over in America, since not too many wars have been fought on our lands, but I have seen some tombs that do belong to American soldiers. Must suck, being buried so far away from your home, huh? I am grateful, I guess. Even if I die out here in Europe, at least some people will know what I did for my country. You'll know, I guess, and everyone back home. But I'm not going to die, because then people would be sad and I don't want anyone to be sad. I don't get involved with such woman, Artie! I swear it! Celia will awaits me, and when I come home we can be happy together.

Coming up with nicknames for my friends is a matter of respect for me. I respect them enough to relax about the whole politeness thing, see? Does that make any sense? I hope it does. I won't address these letters as Artie, but I'm still going to call you such. At least in my head, if you get mad at me for writing it out on paper. And I'm no idiot! I'm actually quite the intelligent man. I don't think you're completely sane, actually. You seem weird. But, if you insist, I won't tell them or let them read the letters. Still, I think that's neat that you were able to talk to things that didn't exist! Bet you had a fun childhood doing that, huh? I know paper is flammable. I was just not really thinking that one over. I wanted to give you something to remember me by, other than a letter, and gunpowder just seemed like a good choice at the time. Okay, something different- in this letter is a small string of thread from my uniform. I have a bad habit of picking at it sometimes, especially in places where it's already frayed. Pushing you in wasn't my fault. You were in my way, Artie! Of course I would have run into you, silly British man! Next time, don't stand so close to the edge, especially when you're scared of water. And I think that you might be right and you might be wrong with that. Sometimes, dying seems scary. Sometimes, I just stop and tell myself of all the things I could do if I survive the war. Other times, I just want to welcome it, knowing that I'll die with honor to my name and people might remember me. I'm not sure what I want in life anymore, actually. War confuses me. But, yeah, the desk job is ruled out!

Okay, well, I really wasn't thinking that one through. I just meant they would come to England, most likely. Not London, exactly, but maybe somewhere else in England. Like a countryside place. I don't know any of the names, but you know what I mean! I think that's fair enough. You're helping out how you can, and their sons are helping out how they can. If the glaring gets to you, why don't you move to America? You can live with my mom and dad and brother there. No one would glare at you. Plus, my mom's a real good cook! And you won't have to take care of any burning buildings and no one will die over there. I think it would be good for you to go. Would you rather we just let the Japanese step over us? Want us to go back home and not save you guys? Trust me, because America entered the war, everything will get better. And don't speak about that incident like it's stupid. We lost a lot of men there. Yeah, I'm the only one reading them, but you keep putting random letters where they aren't needed. Like that 'u' and shit. It's really weird. Are you sure you're a qualified English teacher?

I could so have influence over the rest of the world. I'd just make them stop all wars. It's as simple as showing them the deaths, the graveyards, the suffering families, and maybe they'll come to their senses and realize they're destroying their own citizens by doing this. Ha, my mom won't ever find out about me lusting after those pretty German spies. It's just a secret between you and me. Mostly because the other men may or may not think I've slept with a few. Late night bragging is popular around here, and my only other thing to brag about is that I survived life with an insane cat, so I may have stretched the truth. Hopefully, it won't get back to Celia. Thanks, man. I doubt I'll be talking about it much. It seems we might be laying low for a few weeks, thank god. But, you know, it's really nice knowing I have someone to talk to about everything.

The Irish are the one who have the rainbows and the green color everywhere, right? And the Scottish have the kilts and bagpipes. I seriously don't know much about the Welsh, though. I still think you're a pure-blood Englishman. You have the whole accent and posh attitude, right? I don't think the Scottish have that on account they were skirts. It's not too big of an issue, no. It was when I started. But (and don't tell anyone this), during my physical examination, I got my friend in front of me to read off the letters really loud, so I went in without glasses and just memorized what he said. I've got a damn good memory, that's for sure, but it was kind of nerve wracking, knowing I might mess up and then they'd kick me out. But once I got to Europe, they discovered about my sight. They didn't seem to mind. I think the doctor said I'm slightly far-sighted, but since it doesn't mess me up any when I'm flying, it's all good. Yep! You do care a lot! Don't deny it, Artie, I know you'd be pissed if I were to stop writing to you.

You're totally jealous, I can tell,  
Alfred F. Jones


	15. 27th March, 1943

Saturday, 27th March, 1943

Captain A. F. Jones,

You are quite right in the fact that I refer to you only as that when I begin my letters. In my head, you are merely "Jones", or, if I'm feeling generous, "that damn American bastard who almost killed me". I'm not fond of pet names, but that one has rather grown on me. Perhaps it shall be how all my letters from this point onwards are addressed? Maybe I will think of something considerably more flattering; only time will tell. Before this war, yes, I had fears. Not anymore, Jones. Everything that ever terrified me, that ever kept me up at night, twisting the muscles in my stomach and jolting me from disjointed sleep, all that and more, has already happened, in some shape or form. There is nothing for me to be afraid of anymore, I suppose. Except, perhaps, getting pushed into large bodies of water by idiotic Americans who lack the ability to observe their surroundings and avoid the Brits minding their own business, enjoying a brisk stroll through the park. Oh, perhaps that is how you what to be addressed from now on? It seems rather long to be considered a pet name, I'm afraid.

I wouldn't know; the furthest I've ever been from England is Ireland, and that was only once. As much as I want to give input on how awful it must be to be buried away from your homeland, it really isn't my area of expertise. If you wanted, perhaps, a poem to engrave on this epitaph, wherever it may be, then I could offer the slightest bit of help. If it comes to it, there is a distinct probability I could translate it into French for you, though I am loathe to do so, and shudder at the thought of once again having to speak that Godforsaken language. I know you won't die here in Europe, Jones. How could you, when you have Celia and that awful desk job-stroke-presidency waiting for you in America?

As previously stated, Jones, I am not one for pet names. Contrary to that which I presume you to believe, Artie is not a particularly clever one, nor a fitting one. If anything, it is common. You are not the first person to insist upon addressing me as such. I'm not best pleased that the title has made its way onto paper once again. There is nothing abnormal about me, Jones, not anymore, and you have no right to say otherwise. It wasn't a fun childhood. There was nothing even remotely enjoyable about my childhood. If you knew paper was flammable, then why was your statement decorated with such a sense of wonder? You shouldn't pick at your uniform. Sooner or later, that will cause holes to form, and the holes will just continue to grow in size until your uniform is unrecognisable. What on Earth will you do when it gets cold, and all you have for warmth is a tattered uniform? Nevertheless, I understand the sentiment, and the action behind it is appreciated. In return, have this strand of wool. It's from an old, unfinished scarf I started knitting long ago that I rediscovered today, shortly before receiving your letter. It seems an appropriate item to enclose. I know you aren't from England, but I hope it makes you think of home regardless. Pushing me in was entirely your fault, Jones. You should have been looking where you were going. And I wasn't even stood that close to the edge! I was in the middle of the goddamn path, but the force of our collision through me considerably further forwards than one would have anticipated. Why were you on a rampage through that park in the first place? It's not that you are remembered that counts; it's who you're remembered by, and how they remember you. That is what is important. I fail to see why anyone would prefer to be regarded as a nameless, faceless hero to their nation, when they could be remembered as, I don't know, perhaps the single most heroic person in existence to their daughter, or their grandson. I think Celia would want you in that desk job, Jones. No doubt her father has a high position in the company, and had to pull a considerable amount of strings to get you that crappy desk. You should consider yourself lucky.

Actually Jones, against all odds, we did have a foreign customer here a few days ago. Well, I say we. I suppose I don't really count in that we, I just live there. But the café had a foreign customer regardless. Belgian. Spoke impeccable English, it was actually remarkable. From what I heard, she was looking for her brother, though why that brought her to London, God only knows. Still, she was the first customer in at least three weeks, so no one questioned her presence. I am not a wealthy man, Jones. I can't just up it all and move to America, even if I had any form of desire to, which I don't. I'm sure your parents are wonderful people, but I don't know them, and they don't know me. It would be awfully odd for a stranger to turn up out of the blue and start living with them. There's also the fact it would be rude, I wouldn't want to intrude or impose myself, and I have absolutely no desire to visit America. There's also the question of my younger brother, whom I happen to be solely responsible for. I'm aware of the fact you lost a lot of men, and I'm sorry if you feel I'm downplaying the event, but has it ever occurred to you that if America had stepped in earlier, they wouldn't have died? Do you have any idea how many innocent lives could have been spared if America had aided us back in 1940, when we stood the only country in Western Europe to have fallen to Germany? Not just men, but women and children too. I lost my mother, Jones. My brother lost his wife and son. I apologise for making it seem like the event was of no importance; I understand that it is the reason why you are here, risking your life. I can assure you, Jones, I would never put a 'u' where it did not belong. My spelling is faultless in its entirety. You merely fail to see that because you seem to have some strange form of discriminatory attitude towards the vowel in question.

Jones, if that strategy worked, then war would have ended centuries ago. The suffering of others will always come second to the greed of man. Dear God, have you actually been telling them you sleep with spies? That is foolish, Jones, completely foolish. What if one of them is stupid enough to believe you, tells an official, and has you shot for it? Please, stop bragging about it. Tell them about the cat. Hell, tell them about how you saved a hydrophobic Brit from certain death in a duck pond, but do not tell them you have slept with German spies. Don't tell them you've slept with a German woman at all. You won't believe the stories I have heard about terrible things people have done to people they thought were German spies. I don't believe half of them, but this is a war. Who's to question where the bullet came from if the man fell on the battlefield?

Had my brother read your description of the Scottish, I doubt either one of us would be here to discuss the outcome. Kilts, Jones. They wear kilts, not skirts. Patterned with the tartan associated with their clan. The Irish have a strong folklore, though I can't associate it with rainbows and the colour green immediately. Shamrocks and leprechauns are more of their signature imagery. Wales is the small country next to England. I wouldn't have expected you to know much of it; we've been oppressing the Welsh for centuries. Dragons, I believe they're associated with. Jones, that is incredibly dishonest of you. Not to mention stupid. Are you that much of an idiot that the idea of getting yourself killed appealed to you in such a great amount you found yourself with nary a choice but to cheat on your entrance exam? I'd only be pissed because of the time and effort writing these letters requires, Jones.

Failing to see what there is to be jealous of,  
Arthur Kirkland


	16. 2nd April, 1943

April 2nd, 1943

Arthur Kirkland,

I'm sure you have something else that you refer to me by! Like, "that handsome American bastard who risked his own life to save mine". Or "that handsome American bastard who can fly super well and who is really strong". Either of those would suffice. Since you seem like a rather creative guy, though, why don't you come up with your own? I mean, a flattering one. Sure, it's nice to know that you're pretty cool with me now (which can only mean we're friends, I hope), but I think I'm worth far more than what you have in your head right now. If it makes you feel any better, I'll make sure none of those things ever happen again. I don't want anyone to have to experience their worst fears. Since you're my friend, I'll promise you that you'll be safe once I take care of things! I observed my surroundings. You're just so short that I overlooked you, is all. You could stand to grow a few inches. I'm sure if you move to America, you'll find more food, and then you can grow tall and I won't ever look over your head again.

So long as it's a nice poem that captures my entire personality into a few lines, I wouldn't mind that. Don't translate it into French, though. I don't care if I die in France or Germany or Russia or Italy or wherever else- my grave will be in English, because that's my language. Also, if I _do_ have a gravestone in Europe, be sure to put an American flag out beside it at all times. It wouldn't do for an American soldier to have no flag, now, would it? Yeah, Celia would be mighty upset, wouldn't she? I'll survive this war for her! So then we can die together in America, and no one would think twice about laying an American flag near our graves. Of course, if I'm the president, then it'll be law for me to always have an American flag by my grave. I think it is. Isn't it? I'm not sure how it works in Britain, but the presidents like America. Therefore, it's either law or tradition that a president dies with his flag. I'll ask the other pilots about that.

It's not all that common if you're making such a fuss about it. Or maybe you have some special someone who you allow to call you Artie (in which case, I find that really unfair, since I should be the only one allowed to call you as such). Either way, it's just a way for me to show our relationship. When two friends are close, don't they call each other pet names? Like, all the guys here call me Jonesy instead of just Jones or Alfred. I don't mind, because it signifies that we're all friends! So you should let me call you a little something, just to prove to the world that we're buddies. Don't get so offensive, Artie! I didn't mean you were abnormal. I just meant that you were a bit strange, which is an okay thing to be, especially for the British. And I'm sure there had to be something about your childhood that was fun! Children always have fun, no matter what tough times they're going through. Paper is flammable, yeah, but it was even more flammable now that it had gunpowder on it. That's what I was trying to say. Are you that worried about me? That's so sweet, Artie! But have no fear! I won't get cold. I'll try to stop picking at it for you, if you want. I'm pretty sure they could make me a new uniform if this one gets too ruined. Besides, maybe I'll be out of here by winter. And you finally sent me something! I'm going to keep it in my pocket- it might bring me good luck! I don't really have much else to send you, so I drew your eyebrows on the back of this letter. They're big enough to take up a whole damn page, you see. And I was running for some exercise! I was just too fast to see you and then I hit you, and since you're such a scrawny guy, you plopped right into the pond. But if I don't live to have some grandson, I'd rather be that faceless, nameless hero for my nation, I've come to realize. Like you said before, I personally might not be remembered, but people will remember the actions of the entire U.S. Army after this war. I'd rather be remembered as a faceless hero in the U.S. Army, alongside other faceless heroes, than as the man who simply survived and left his dead teammates behind. Well, if he had to pull me strings to get a crappy desk job, I can do better than that. I need to provide for Celia, after all, and a desk job won't bring in much money.

Well, at least you had a customer, right? Even if she was Belgian. They speak French, don't they? The languages in Europe are all over the place, I've noticed. Some of the men have been trying to help me with other languages, but the most I can do now is a few greetings here and there. They said, though, that it'll really be useful once we actually start going to different countries (which, again, can't tell you anything, but it looks as if that will be pretty shortly). I can ask my mother to send you some money, if you want to. It wouldn't be strange. I've already told her you're my friend, and since she's a real happy woman, she wouldn't mind at all. Plus, you have a British accent, so you can charm my whole family with that. They like British accents, for some reason (though I think American accents sound more like freedom). Your younger brother could also move with my parents. If you want, I can tell them in my next letter to send you the money. They'd understand! Listen, I know you're upset about the war, but we didn't want to get into your fight. It would be costly (and do you know how tough it was in America during the depression?) and we would lose a lot of men. We sent you guys help, anyway. We gave you money and supplies and we showed our support that way, but I, for one, wasn't ready to risk my life over your cause. Japan just made it more personal and dragged us into the war. Though, now that I see what it's like over here, I can proudly say that I'm not just fighting for America; I'm fighting for Europe. Some of the towns I've come across are awful, and so many people are dead, and I just don't want to see innocent people die anymore. It makes me so sick. I'm sorry about your mother, your sister-in-law, and your nephew. I mean, I wish I could have done something about it sooner, but, I'm just sorry. I don't know what it's like to lose a family member like that. Americans just understand that we don't need to use the letter "u" in words that don't need it. Try pronouncing it with the letter u- it sounds weird, doesn't it?

Maybe, then, someone needs to make men see sense. I don't think anyone can look at these suffering families and still think that the war is alright. I don't think _anyone_ could. It's impossible to see the deaths and still think that killing people is okay. I don't tell them I'm sleeping with spies, silly! I just dropped a hint that I've slept with one or two of the pretty women around the town. They all whistled for me and called me a man. It was a proud moment. But, have no fear! I actually haven't slept with anyone, and I doubt I will. Besides, all the other guys say that they've slept with the women, too. It might be common now. I was just nervous they would think I was a kid if they learned I'm still a virgin. And they'll call me unrealistic if I tell them I'm waiting for Celia. Hopefully, Celia won't think it's unrealistic. I'd like to imagine that she thinks it's sweet.

But the kilts looked like skirts. I also heard that they don't wear anything underneath. Is that true? If it is, the Scottish are nasty. Does your brother wear kilts with nothing underneath? Not that I would expect you to look or anything. Never mind, I don't want to know. Maybe the rainbows and shit come from their folklore, then. Don't a lot of you European nations have folklore? I've already heard a bunch of tales, and we don't really have that in America. I've heard of Wales, but I don't know much of the history and culture. Sorry. But dragons are cool! I loved hearing stories of dragons when I was a little boy. I always imagined myself as a knight, slaying the evil dragons! Hey, I wasn't thinking about getting killed! I just wanted to help my country, and this is the best way I can offer my services. Besides, it all worked out in the end. They let me wear my glasses again, and I'm one of the best pilots they've got (my own opinion, of course), so they're cool! No, I think you'd really miss me, Artie. You seem like a sentimental sort of guy.

Showing you what there is to be jealous of with a simple letter,  
Alfred F. Jones


	17. 14th April, 1943

Wednesday, 14th April, 1943

Captain Alfred F. Jones,

After a tremendous amount of consideration, I decided that, perhaps, instead of wasting time and energy in an attempt to come up with a witty pet name of some form to satisfy your desire for informality and familiarity between the pair of us, it would be much simpler, and hopefully bring you the same amount of joy, if I were to begin to refer to you as Alfred, hence the start of my letter. I hope that this works just as well as a pet name. I'm thankful that there will always be idiots like you out there who think they can make things better, and force others into that frame of mind by being needlessly (and, dare I say, pointlessly) optimistic. On another note, I am not that short. Perhaps you are freakishly tall, did that ever occur to you? I have no need to move to America, and I highly doubt the action in question will help me grow at all. I shall be twenty-four by the end of the month, Alfred. I've done my growing.

English is your language, is it? One would never tell; half of the time you butcher it so badly one would assume you were speaking French. Wouldn't it be hard to capture one's entire personality in a poem? In order to do this, the poet would have to include lines like, "And on Thursdays, he was always the most irritable child, depending on whether he'd slept on his back or his stomach the night before," which isn't the most poetic line I've ever heard. I wouldn't know anything about your ridiculous laws, Alfred. I'm not American. But from what I've seen of your people, I don't doubt it's illegal not to have an American flag resting by your tombstone. You all seem to be overly patriotic idiots.

If by "special someone" you are implying I have a Celia of my own, you are very much mistaken. My mother, however, used to call me Artie, as did my least-intolerable, almost-bearable brother. He used to address his letters with "Artie". In case the use of past tense didn't make it obvious enough for you, he's the one who died. It was slightly unnerving to receive a letter addressed to "Artie" again, after however-many-years. How is it "okay" to be strange? And what exactly does "especially for the British" mean? I don't know what you're implying, Jones, but I don't like it. You are also gravely mistaken. I would have lost my job if any of my students' parents had found out about my mental condition as a child. They wouldn't have wanted a lunatic teaching their children. They would be worried for their children's safety. I suppose you're right; there are some fond memories, if I look back. Mainly of my mum. The rest of my family, except perhaps my grandmother, and my late brother, were wankers. Still are, those of them still alive. Excluding my sister. There aren't enough juxtaposing adjectives to describe the insanity that she is. There is nothing sweet about being concerned for your wellbeing. It's the sort of thing any decent human being would do. I don't know what you're on about, my eyebrows are a perfectly average size. I would have loved to have drawn you a picture in return, but realised there wasn't enough paper in the world to even attempt to draw your ego. I suppose I understand that. Are you and Celia not planning on having children then? It seems like the sort of thing she'd like.

As far as I'm aware, they speak several languages in Belgium, of which French is one, yes. You'll find the languages here are all over the place, because there are more than two countries on this continent. However, most countries speak their own languages; Italian in Italy, French in France, Spanish in Spain and so on and so forth. We're an exception, of course, because after we took over Wales we beat their language out of them. I imagine we did the same in Scotland, though I'm not as familiar with the history of Anglo-Scots relations. Which greetings have you mastered then, Jones? As lovely as the sentiment is, Alfred, I am not a charity case, and I do not need money, from you or your mother. Furthermore, I suspect your family need that money, in order to provide for themselves. You have a younger brother, I believe; would you really ask your mum to take money that could be used to feed and clothe him and give it to an English stranger? I'm absolutely fine here in England. I don't need to leave. It wasn't our fight, Jones. It was always Germany's fight. Germany was invading neutral countries, and hurting innocent people- they're still hurting innocent people. We had the ability to help, so we did. We would have been targeted eventually, anyway, regardless of our involvement. I can't imagine just standing back and watching the rest of Europe suffer- oh wait, yes I can. Sometimes I forget that's what I'm doing right now. It's what the French did, when they formed that Godforsaken Vichy. I'm in no way downplaying what you are doing, Jones. I am entirely grateful for your help. I just thought I ought to make it clear, for fear that things I have said in previous letters may have given you reason to believe otherwise. It's hard, losing someone you love. For the first few days, you feel numb, empty, and can't quite believe they're gone. Most people heal with time, but I find that the passage of time only makes it worse. It's possible to forget that they're gone. I used to find myself thinking, "Haven't seen mum in a while, maybe I'll invite her in for tea next Tuesday," before remembering she was gone. Of course "it" sounds weird when pronounced with the letter "u". There is no "u" in "it".

The point is, Alfred, that the men with the power to stop war are not the ones suffering. If it isn't happening to them, then it doesn't matter. It isn't real. I'm not the one being shot, so there's no death in this war. I'm not the one being bombed, so there is no damage occurring in this war. I'm not the one killing, so there's no dying in this war. That's how it works. Are there an awful lot of attractive women near where you are stationed then? How fortunate for you. What lies would you be forced to tell them if all the women were dead or ugly? I'm sure Celia will be overjoyed you're waiting for her. She's waiting for you too, after all.

True Scotsmen don't wear anything beneath their kilts, but I believe it is an act that is slowly going out of fashion. They don't seem to think it's all that manly to shoot Germans without underwear on. There is a lot of folklore in Europe, yes. It is how we used to scare children into behaving, or teach them important life lessons. They would have been too you at the time to understand a certain concept, so it was taught to them through myths and legends, usually local to a certain area or country. I wouldn't have known all that much about Wales if my brother hadn't lived there, Alfred. It's just a country that we're better than. We have a long history of fighting and enslaving the Welsh. I don't know if you've ever heard of St. George, Alfred, but he's the bloke our flag's named after. He happens to be the patron saint of England, if that wasn't obvious in the fact we named our flag after him. Supposedly he slayed a dragon and saved a princess. Ironically, St. George is remembered as a great warrior, and we celebrate him on the twenty-third of April, which happens to be my birthday. Pathetic, isn't it, that I share a birthday with the day of a man associated with strength and I can't even get accepted into the army. I'm sure you are their best pilot, and that wasn't just your ego talking there. I have full confidence in your flying abilities, of course. Jones, we met once, in all honesty, I barely know you. Don't you think it would be hard for one to miss a virtual stranger? I suppose I am somewhat sentimental. Just a tad.

Unimpressed with that which is meant to be envied,  
Arthur Kirkland


	18. 22nd April, 1943

Thursday, 22nd April, 1943

Arthur Kirkland,

That wasn't very creative. Are you sure you used to be a teacher? Whatever the case, I had been hoping you would have come up with some amazing name that described me perfectly. Not that Alfred is a bad name, of course, just that I wanted something cool and personal. I guess you aren't that sort of guy, huh? Anyway, you can call me Alfred. Just stop writing all that "captain" stuff ahead of my name- it looks too professional, and friends should never be professional with one another! Unless that friend is your boss, which you are not. I'm no idiot! I did very good in school, I'll have you know. And being optimistic doesn't make me an idiot- it just makes me a very hopeful person. I've always lived under the mindset that things will get better, and I'm not ever going to get rid of that mindset. Even if everyone in the world thinks it's stupid, I know it's right. No, you're very short. I'm not that tall. Just a tad bit tall, and you're just a tad bit short, that's all. And you're 24? Kind of young to be a teacher, don't you think?

French comes with a lot of apostrophes and retching sounds. I really don't think I could ever speak French. Or write it. It's a strange language. I mean, like I said, I'm trying to learn some of it, but there's too much usage of the back of my throat. I'm more used to talking quickly and using a lot of slang, you know? Not so much French-ness. That's not my whole life, though. Something like, "He was a brave man with a brave heart and he loved Celia and he worked his ass off trying to take care of his friends and family and he will be sorely missed". Not that it's very poetic, but I'm sure you could make it into some Shakespeare-styled writing, since you're a teacher. Again, we're not idiots- we're hopeful. And patriotic is a great thing to be! I would do anything for my country, you know. I love my flag and I love my country.

Well, I'm sure if you ever find your Celia, she would love to call you Artie. I mean, you look like the sort of guy that would be called Artie. Probably because you get so riled up by it and I think it's funny to get you so riled up. Celia will think so, too, I guarantee it (because I can't see you with a girl who won't mess with you). But I promise I won't address a letter to you as Artie again. I'm real sorry if it made you upset. I guess I wasn't thinking. I meant just that- it's okay to be strange and different. It just makes you special. If other people, like the parents of the children you taught, can't see that, then they're just foolish. Being different is awesome, and you shouldn't pretend like you're normal when you're better than normal, right? I mean, those are just my personal thoughts. And I said "especially for the British" because the British are all strange. The one down here keeps saying "jolly good". I'm not sure if it's a British thing (I think it is) or just a him-thing, but it's really strange. What's stranger is the fact that I've gotten used to it and most of his other British speech. It really is a lot different than how we speak at home. See? I told you that you'd find some fond memories if you looked hard enough. I mean, surely it must be different from what's all going on now, so you can just look back on the past and still be happy at the way life was then, and we can work to make life the same way for the children growing up now. Well, the Germans certainly aren't concerned for my well being. Oh, but you did say a decent human being, so I guess they're counted out! Yes, my ego is very large. People tell me that all the time. But I like having a large ego, because I'm very able! I can do whatever I put my mind to! If Celia wants children, we can have children. I like children. It would be fun to teach a little boy how to play baseball or braid a little girl's hair. If I knew how to braid hair, that is.

I wish each country would just speak their own language. Like Belgium should speak Belgian and Wales should speak Whale (get it?). Though, if that was the case, I guess I'd be speaking American and the Canadians would be speaking Canadian, neither of which is a real language. Well, I know how to say hello in French; bonjour. And German is guten tag, or something along those lines. Italian is ciao, I think (and I honestly have no idea if the spellings are correct). My brother could handle going without food for a few days. Besides, my family is used to me being all weird about strangers. I used to invite all sorts of people home with me. Mom threw a fit when she found a homeless guy in the kitchen with me (I was just giving him some milk). But you're one of our allies, and you aren't homeless, so you can just go and get yourself some milk. Mom wouldn't mind, promise. But if you're so sure you don't want to go, are you sure there isn't anything we can do to help? I mean, your country is in shambles right now, and living there must not be fun. I know you guys are just protecting your country, and I know Germany is in the wrong, but I just wish it wouldn't come to warfare. I wish you guys could solve your problems some other way, and sometimes I wish we didn't get so caught up in the fight. I just want to go home. Not that I don't mind being a hero, but life over here is hectic and I miss my family and friends. I miss knowing that I'm safe. America is a safe place, and I miss feeling safe. I guess I can't be complaining, though, since you've been through so much more than I have. Sorry. I do know you're grateful, though. As you should be! I'm a pretty damn good hero, aren't I? Well, hopefully you'll never lose anyone else. I'm going to make sure of that, you know. I'll make sure that everyone else close to you stays alive and well and then you'll be happier and won't have to experience that feeling again. Oh, haha, you're so hilarious, Arthur. You know what I meant.

Well, when I'm in power, I would have been one of them that suffered. I would know what it's like to fight in a war, and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. If we have more people who are aware of war in power, it might be different, don't you think? Seeing all this death has me wishing that it'll never happen again, and I really want to make sure of that. I do understand that it's necessary sometimes, though, so that might be a problem. Defending one's nation and her allies is a good reason for war, but I just don't know. I want it all to stop. I just want everyone to be peaceful. Far-fetched, yeah, but it's a good idea. There's a good many attractive women out and about. Maybe it's some European thing. Like a law. Women must be attractive. Or maybe it's the simple fact that I haven't had much contact with women at all, so I see them all the time and they must all be attractive. They're normal, if you understand what I mean. War is insane but women are normal, so they're all attractive to me. And Celia will most certainly be happy! All my real love is reserved for her.

Oh, god, that's awful. They wear skirts and are naked. Gross. Still, it's something to boast about; "I shot a German with no underwear!" If you want to scare children into behaving, just spank them. My mother spanked me all the time with my father's belt. Hurts like hell. But it made me into a nice, young man, so I guess she did something right, and it didn't even require the use of folklore. I'm pretty sure that St. George didn't actually slay a dragon. Dragons don't exist. He might have been a great man, but it's all exaggerated. Honestly, I think you're braver than he is. You're staying in a place that's been bombed, you've lost family and friends but you still go on, and you do whatever you can to help out the war effort. You're probably even better than he is. It's always the quiet heroes that are the best. Good! You should have confidence in me! I'm strong and I can fly well, so everything is perfect!

You wouldn't be writing back if you weren't impressed,  
Alfred F. Jones


	19. 1st May, 1943

Saturday, 1st May, 1943

Dear Captain Reckless American Idiot Responsible for Almost Killing the Author of this Letter, and then Saving his Life, whilst managing still to be an Intolerable, Annoying Buffoon,

I hope this is a personal enough pet name for you. Unfortunately, it's a tad too long for my liking, so I am intending on calling you merely Alfred Jones from this point onwards. I put a lot of thought into that name though, Jones, and I must admit, I shall be purely heartbroken if you dislike it. I shall spend countless days and nights weeping at how I failed to win your favour, at how my best efforts couldn't compare to your high, intellectual standards, at how my words could not even begin to capture your courageous and kind, pure heart. In fact, I'm crying right now at how cruel I am to force myself to write the previous sentence, even if all the words found there were written with a sarcastic flair. I don't think I can go on with this letter anymore. I am appalled that I could even begin to describe you in such a manner, even if said manner was sarcastic. I call you Captain as a sign of respect, Jones. I make a point of not respecting you with every other statement written in my letters; at the very least they should be addressed to one who is risking his life in a way that shows I respect his work. I apologise that you cannot sense my flair and passion for communicating the English language, and the importance of literature to young children, through these letters. Perhaps, when the war is over and I'm back in work again, you should come evaluate one of my lessons. Maybe I'll live up to your expectations better that way. The correct statement there, Jones, would be that you did very well in school, which you clearly didn't if you're going to sit there and write, "I did good." What part of me that wasn't ashamed with myself for the opening of this letter is now trembling with the horrific grammar in the small clause I just wrote. I am not short, Jones. I am a perfectly average height. And yes, I suppose you could consider it a young age to begin teaching, if it weren't for the fact that women begin teaching at at least two years my junior. For some reason, most have the idea that a female teacher can be any age, but a male teacher must be old and miserable with his life, constantly taking swigs from his hip flask when he thinks no one is looking, and enforcing rules that many think it is time to move away from.

Don't learn French. It is an inferior language. I have no idea why my family were so adamant I learnt it. I suppose it was to do with maintaining a friendship with that French family we've known for generations. "Alas, here lies a man whose bravery shall live on among those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to provide a future for their children and grandchildren. Though his body lies here, his heart will remain forever in the arms of his dear Celia, and his spirit shall linger with the friends and family he gave so much for. Here lies a man who will be missed. Here lies a man who will be remembered." Is that satisfactory? I apologise, I couldn't remember if you were supposed to be dying in battle or old age, so I attempted to make it seem as though both were possible. I hope this has restored in you some faith of my teaching capabilities.

I honestly doubt that I shall ever find a Celia, purely because the name isn't all that common here, and I doubt the chances of both of us finding true love in a woman by that name are high. Perhaps I shall find a Victoria, or a Vera. Nancy is an especially common name at the moment. I wager I'm far more likely to find myself a Nancy, though if she insists of calling me Artie, I'm not entirely sure how I would cope. Perhaps I'd come around to the name eventually. I'd much rather be normal, Jones. It might be different in America, but here… It isn't acceptable to be abnormal. It's becoming slightly less unacceptable, I suppose, but it still isn't _approved _of. My father used to say "jolly good!" It is a phrase I often associate with him. Mother used to call him for dinner, and he would bound down the stairs calling, "Jolly good, dear! Allow me a moment to put out my pipe!" I'm sure there is at least one decent person in Germany, Alfred. Just as there were people here who sympathised with the Nazis, there must be people there who sympathise with us. There must be. What hope is there for the human race if there isn't? I'm sure you would make a wonderful father; imagine all the stories of your heroism you could enthral your children with. Perhaps you could even tell them the tale of how you leapt into foreign water in an attempt to save the life of a bitter Englishman, who seemed to do nothing but resent you for it?

The language individual to Belgium, I was informed, is Flemish. The woman I mentioned previously returned to the café the day after I sent you my last letter; Flemish, French and German are all spoke frequently there. I think she also mentioned Dutch, but I forget. I got the joke, Alfred, but that wasn't the problem. People do still speak Welsh in Wales, though it's mainly the elderly. I suppose some parents teach it to their children, and they go by a strict schedule of Welsh at home and English at school. As far as I am aware, all those statements were correct. I could help you with your French, if the need arises- and I'm praying to God that it doesn't. Oh, how I hate that language. You have no idea how strange it is to me that you could actually think your brother could go a few days without food. Here, there are children clutching ration cards eagerly, hoping somehow they might get the tiniest amount more than their regular allowance. I can't remember the last time I saw children running to and from shops behind their mother, tugging at her skirt and begging her to let them have something sweet, something made from chocolate, or sugar, as I remember doing in my childhood. I wonder when the last time any of them actually ate something sweet was; in fact, I'm going to mention it in my next letter to my brother, check he's being fed well. It has just occurred to me that I know so little about the family he is staying with, apart from the fact they both seem to dote on him and adore him, although he could just be making that up. Bugger, I'm worried now. I know the feeling Jones; I miss feeling safe too. But one day this war will be over, and we will both have good, honest lives, and you'll have Celia and I'll go back to work, and we will look back and think, "Remember when I couldn't sleep at night because of fear? When every time I closed my eyes, I was met with the possibility that that was the last time I closed them?" and we will smile to ourselves, falling asleep in our respective timezones, so thankful that we don't feel that way anymore. We will feel so safe at that point that all this insecurity will be worth it. At least, it will if I haven't killed you for making me think in a manner that could be considered optimistic Jones. Dammit all, and I was so prepared to discuss our impending doom, yet all I've written is something almost positive. You're starting to get to me. You are certainly a hero, Alfred, and a heroic one at that. In fact, I cannot even begin to comprehend the undying heroism in your heroic actions. That is how much of a hero you are. I'm glad that you find me so amusing Jones, though I am unaware as to what I did that could have you in such a fit of laughter. I assure you, I do not write with the intent of being comical.

No Jones, I don't think that that will solve the problem. When we have men who aren't greedy in power, men who put the need of both their people, and the rest of the people living in the world, into consideration before making a decision that could impact those from all walks of life, men who genuinely care for the people they have been chosen to lead, then there will be less war in the world. It will never be completely gone; history is written in blood, Alfred. Oh for God's sake, did that thought really cross your mind? That it is a law for women to be attractive? Well, here, I'll let you in on a secret; it is a law. All unattractive women are kept in barns to avoid men having to look at them, OF COURSE IT ISN'T A LAW! MY TWELVE-YEAR-OLD BROTHER COULD COME UP WITH A MORE INTELLIGENT COMMENT THAN THAT, AND NOT ONLY IS HE TWELVE, HE'S AN IDIOT! Oh God, I completely apologise for that outbreak. I hadn't read the statement that followed, in which you made both an accurate and incredibly intellectually astounding point. Were I not so far into this letter, I would start again to avoid that, but I can't. So please, don't think any less of me for getting angry with something I though was incredibly stupid. Christ, I even wrote in capitals. There are ink blots everywhere. I must learn to manage my temper, I really must.

Who in their right mind would wish to boast about shouting a German nude? I wouldn't say they were nude at all though, Jones, due to the fact they would be wearing a shirt, kilt, shoes, socks, one of those small Scottish hats, and a jacket in their family tartan, I imagine. Also, perhaps, a bow tie. My brother always wore a bow tie with his kilt. These were different times, Jones, and children underwent labour a thousand times more painful than any set of lashing their parents chose to award their awful behaviour with, and they underwent this every single day, in order to merely survive. Also, our countries and societies are older than Christianity, meaning that we (we being the people alive at the time in various European countries) had to find some other way of explaining why it got dark at night, and why people died, and why it was cold in winter, and what the stars were, and who made them, and who made us that wasn't God. Well, wasn't the God of Christianity. There were other Gods that the people here came up with. Folklore is what survives of the stories told to explain why things were the way they were. I'm glad that you are of that opinion Jones, and that you think so highly of me; you are alone in your opinion, however.

Writing back out of moral obligation due to the fact my life was saved by an idiot from America,  
Arthur Kirkland


	20. 9th May, 1943

Sunday, May 9, 1943

Dear Arthur,

That pet name was far too personal. Yes, I would just shorten it to Alfred. And, because I'm a nice guy, I didn't even retaliate with some personal pet name for you. See, now you must respect me even more so than usual, must you not? But don't go crying about me not appreciating the name as much as you would have liked for me to. I mean, I'm sure it took you a lot of effort to come up with that, and I don't want you to think that I hate it. You probably could have done better, though. Just saying. I'm happy you call me Captain out of respect and not just because it's part of my title. You really don't have too, though. I like being just Alfred around you. It kind of makes me forget, if only for a few minutes, that I am a Captain, and that I am fighting in a war. I'd like to sit through one of your lessons after the war. I want to see just how good of a teacher you are. Based on what I've read from your letters, I'd say you were a hell of a great teacher! Those kids must miss school, and being taught by you. I'd miss it. I mean, I actually do miss it. If I could go back in time, I don't think I'd change signing up for war, but I might have enjoyed myself in school just a little more than I did. Kids have it lucky over in America right now. They can complain about school all they want, but once they grow up and face the real world, they'll miss it. Oh, I just read that next part. Yeah, my teachers told me once or twice to say "well" instead of "good", but old habits die hard! I guess it's just the way I grew up. I'll try and remember it better, though, since you're a teacher and you live off of correct grammar or something. You might be average in England, Artie, but you're short in America. Actually, I picture you doing just that while teaching. Being real strict and drinking from a flask and stuff. Just minus the elderly age.

I figured it was an inferior language. Have you seen all the accent marks above the letters? It's insane. Luckily, I don't have to learn much of it. I just wanted to get a few of the basics so I could at least get by when I need to go to France. Hopefully, I won't make any French friends, because then I might also have to start learning more of the language, which I already know I can't do. Languages are one of the things I struggle with. According to you, I can barely speak English correctly, anyway! That's actually more than satisfactory. Wow. It kind of left me a little bit speechless. Or, write-less. Whatever the term is, I just sat there in silence for a few minutes. If I do die, in battle or back home in America, I do want that on my grave. That would be perfect. Add an American flag, and I'd be the proudest son-of-a-gun in the world. You're a very good teacher, and a very good author (would that be a very "well" author?). Seriously, you should consider writing a book.

Vera? No, not a Vera, please. If we have have dinners together, or double dates, I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face when I called her by her name. Do a Nancy. That's a much better name to have. Besides, Nancy's would probably look better than Vera's. I think a Vera would be an ugly, old hag or something. Date a Nancy to match my Celia. If Nancy calls you Artie, I know you'll come to love it soon enough. If she does it out of love, it'll be special, and you'll understand that. See, despite not having a girlfriend yet, I'm very skilled in the art of love. I mean, if you've been around my parents, you'd probably be skilled, too. It should be acceptable to be abnormal! No one should be scared for what they truly are. I mean, if it doesn't harm anyone else, why should they care? Hopefully, by the end of the war, people will discover just how great of a guy you are, strange qualities and all! My god, you guys do seriously say "jolly good"? And here I thought it was just him. You should start saying it. Just end every sentence with "jolly good", and everyone will be happier, because you said jolly. Jolly makes me think of Christmas, which makes me think of the Christmas trees back home. Damn, now I want Christmas to come again and maybe I can get a leave and go celebrate Christmas with my family. You're invited. If there are Germans who sympathize with us, I'm going to take them straight out of Germany and send them to America. One of my friends told me that the Nazis put down all opposition, I think, and I don't want any of the good citizens there to be killed just because they like us (as they should). I'd make the best father in the whole world! Now I really want this war to be over so I can get some children. If they look anything like me, they'll be gorgeous children, too! And I'd tell them that one story every single night. It would be their favorite, and then when they have their own children, I'll tell that to them. It's a good story, though, don't you think? One simple act of heroism- me saving you from the churning clutches of the pond- created friendship and letters. You'd be bored without me around!

Flemish? What the hell does Flemish sound like? Why can't they just call it something normal? Ducth is spoken in that country beside Belgium. I forgot its name, but I know they speak it around that area. And did you get that woman's name? You never know, that could very well be your Nancy right there! Ask her out on a date! So Welsh is more of an old language? We had some people in America who spoke different languages at home than they did at school. I forgot what languages, though. One spoke Spanish, I remember. I don't think the need will arise. I have some other friends who speak French, so they can translate for me when we come across some of the French people (which we have recently, but that's besides the point because they spoke English quite good- or is it well?). I was actually just joking. He couldn't go a few days without eating anything. He really likes to eat. Not as much as I do (did- the diet here isn't the best), but he could eat as many pancakes as he wanted. That guy loves his pancakes. Maybe, if I ever get a leave before Christmas (I will, don't worry, I know how much you miss looking at me), I can get my mom to send us over some chocolate. Not much, since it's being rationed over in America, too, but maybe a couple of bars to give to whatever children we see out on the streets. Of course, we'll save some for you, too. You're a skinny guy, you need some fattening up. I'll bet your brother is fine where he is. If something was wrong, he would probably tell you. Don't worry so much, Artie! Just relax and take each day a little at a time! I want that safe feeling now, though. I think, and don't quote me on this, that I might have rushed into the war too soon. I just got out of school, and I haven't had the chance to live a real life. And, yes, every time I close my eyes, I think, "What if I never wake up? What if this is it?" And what if it is? What if I do die out here? I'm just scared of not living at all. And now I'm doubtful of my heroic intentions. I've seen more than I've wanted to see, just in these few months. I don't know why I'm saying all this. I guess it's just that little fear that haunts everyone all the time. I'll be fine, don't worry! I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not with that statement. Like, am I really a hero, or are you just saying that to mock me? Whatever the case, I'm glad I can be your hero! I want to be everyone's hero! Now you're just being mean. You wrote something sarcastic, I acknowledged it as funny (sarcastically), and now you're sarcastically replying back. That's mean.

Okay, then, taking all that into account, I at least want someone as president who understands it, and will try to avoid it or negotiate through it. I don't want to have to fight another big war- two in one century seems more than enough, don't you agree? If everyone can just stop getting so riled up and start doing what's best for the people, maybe history will be written in a little less blood each year. Okay, calm down. Obviously, you don't take the time to read before yelling at me, do you? It just makes me wonder how many other things you've taken out of context. Anyway, yes, it was a smart statement (why do you sound so surprised? I'm actually a smart guy!). Control your temper. I'm not so dumb as to actually believe there's such a law. Jesus, I thought you would have more faith in me!

I'd boast about that. If I killed a German in the nude, I'd tell all of my friends. Not that I ever would go nude out in battle, of course. That's just dumb. And, actually, it's a dumb boast. Never mind, sorry I even brought boasts into this. Wearing a bow tie with a kilt sounds like an awful fashion statement. Then again, I don't suppose we're trying to look our best when facing death, huh? Well, that makes sense. Of course they'd have to explain such things! I'm sorry if I seem ignorant about folklore and all this European stuff. I'm not really used to your culture, so most of it is lost on me (and I actually apologized about this, look at me go). I'm sure I'm not alone! Everyone in the war probably thinks highly of you for helping out with the effort! Don't let a few old ladies at home get you down!

Reminding you that the American is actually quite an intellectual and smart American,  
Alfred F. Jones


	21. 14th May, 1943

Friday, 14th May, 1943

Alfred F. Jones,

I apologise that you don't feel our friendship has reached a level in which I can call you such a loving name. I had thought we were close, but clearly I was wrong. Please, do continue to throw every tiny piece of affection I waste on you down the drain. It's where it belongs, after all. I can't believe you both dislike the name, and cannot appreciate how much effort, time, and care went into hand-crafting it for you. It was tailor-made, unique, given only to you, and for you to simply disregard it, well, that hurts, Jones. It hurts a great deal more than you could ever imagine. Oh, the shame and sadness I feel at present! I do respect you, Jones, at least somewhat. I feel like you both forget and simplify the fact that you saved my life, and are currently fighting for my country. I trust you understand both how incredible and important these things are. I may not respect you enough to refrain from writing letters with openings as heavily drenched in sarcasm as this one was, but that is nothing to concern yourself with. Sarcasm is a language I consider myself fluent in, and slip into at every possible chance. Everything I write ought to be taken with a pinch of salt; though it's obvious to me when I'm being sarcastic, I realise you yourself may struggle to locate said language feature, and take me seriously. I apologise if any confusion does happen from such a misunderstanding. If you're so keen on the concept, then perhaps I shall allow you to observe one of my lessons. Your compliments are well received, though I cannot claim them true. However, I cannot prove them false either. They may miss both myself and school (though I do doubt it), but I am just glad they're out of the way of the raids. It really depends on how you phrase the entire sentence; you could say you did well, but you could also say you were good. It would still mean the same thing, but both are grammatically correct, unlike the nonsense you sprout. It is certainly not what I do. I enforce only the most vital and necessary rules in order to keep my class in line, and I most certainly do not drink alcohol when I am working. What kind of a man do you take me for? Better yet, what sort of teacher do you imagine I am, drinking alcohol while working? I am beginning to fear I've made the wrong impression on you.

I studied both French and Latin at the school I attended in my youth, though French was the one most studied. As I have mentioned, my family did have quite a close relationship with a French one; I believe my father fought alongside the head of said French family in the Great War. I kept correspondence with a Frenchman for a great deal of my life- not that I particularly enjoyed it, vulgar little boy that he was. But my point was not to restrict your horizons and opportunities by refusing to learn the language. But, as you noted, you can barely speak English. I doubt there's room for another language in that head of yours. I'm glad you thought so highly of it. It was not what I would consider my best work. If anything, I would consider it something to be improved upon. You were correct the first time, Jones, no need to correct yourself. I thank you for the compliment, and, though the idea is novel, I have neither the time nor the ability to write any form of book. I apologise.

I don't understand why you are so against Vera. She's a lovely woman. However I feel slightly inclined to believe you; I could never grow to love her. Perhaps Nancy would be a far better choice. I'm sure she would love to meet Celia, though I am afraid they are an ocean apart, so these "double dates" you wish to go on will be few and far between. Thank you for your advice, I'm sure that you are right. I don't doubt it. I hope that one day I'll be able to thank you for it and tell you that you were correct. I'd appreciate it if we no longer discussed any abnormalities I may or may not have. Thank you, Jones, for dropping the subject. I trust you to let it go enough that I've thanked you in advance; aren't I wonderful? You are too, Jones, I suppose, though not as wonderful as I, I'm afraid. I, personally, don't use the phrase "jolly good" that frequently. I believe I mentioned my father did. My brother began his most recent letter to me with, "No need to worry, things here are jolly good!" Thought that was worth a mention, given our conversational topic. It's only May, Jones, plenty of time to go before Christmas. One would hope that this war would be over by then, but I'm starting to fear it will never end. Thank you for the invitation, but I doubt I'll be able to attend this year. Perhaps next time? It was kind of you to invite me regardless. I'm sure that the Germans who share our ideals would be grateful for your help, Jones. I assume a high amount of them would have already left Germany. I'm sure whatever children you and Celia do or do not have together will be a tribute to you; no doubt the two of you will make wonderful parents, and your children will be raised in only the most loving, caring environment imagined. Yes, I imagine I would be fairly bored without your letters; I was going to state I would be dead without you "around" as well, but then I remembered who pushed me into that pond.

I imagine Flemish sounds somewhat like Dutch, though I wouldn't know seen as I don't speak either language, nor have I ever had either of them spoken to me. Yes, you are correct that Dutch is spoken in the country next to Belgium, but I feel you're missing my point- the point in question being that there are an awful lot of languages spoken in Belgium. Her name isn't Nancy, but I think I'll follow your advice anyway; should she visit the cafe again, perhaps I will offer to show her the local scenery. I'm sure she'd love to see the ruins of an area that was once beautiful. Or maybe, instead of studying bombed buildings, I'll just shove her in a duck pond. That seems to help the formation of friendships. I hope all your work over there is still going well, though I understand that you can't really disclose any of that information with me. Just don't do anything stupid, Jones, and don't make any enemies; above all, if one of your French-speaking friends gives you a phrase that you're uncertain about and tells you to say it to a Frenchman, don't. I'm aware of how easy it is to trick someone into insulting another in a foreign language only to well. Your brother sounds like a nice lad, from what you've said in previous letters. Perhaps you could tell me a tad more about him in your next letter? Only I'd like to know more about him than the fact he's partial to pancakes, because believe me, as much as I love learning people's eating habits, it's not an easy topic of conversation to keep going for long. When do you reckon your next leave will be? I thought it would be at least a few days off after six months, but you've been stationed out there since December. You're probably so important that they can't allow you a spare second, Captain. Wouldn't you go back to America when you get your leave anyway? I find it quite surprising that you think you'd be coming back to pay me a visit, though I can't deny I would enjoy seeing you. Our face-to-face conversations were brief, and it's almost like the person I'm learning more and more about in each of your letters is completely different to the one who pushed me into a pond. For example, the American who pushed me into that pond was decidedly more arrogant, and I would've never have expected to hear the fear and doubt you expressed in your last letter from him, but from you, from Alfred, I suppose it makes sense. I understand the feelings you're describing, Jones. I can't say that I share them, only that I can imagine what they're like. You and I are viewing this war from entirely different angles; we've both seen things that are likely to haunt us, we're both living through trauma, but the things we've seen and the trauma and stress we're coping with, well, they're completely different. There may have been a slight tinge of sarcasm to what I said- after all, there seldom isn't- but I'm afraid I can't remember completely what that was, but rest assure, Jones, you are a hero. And I mean it.

Perhaps you should just try and get into politics when this war is over. The man you're describing sounds somewhat like yourself, and we don't want you stuck working for Celia's father's company, do we? I'm sure Celia would be behind you, and the government would welcome someone as charming as yourself. That is, providing you don't get yourself blown up or killed in some other horrid, awful way. I suppose I do have a slight temper, yes, and I would do best to keep it under a lid, but I can assure you, I rarely take things out of context. I apologise for my lack of faith in you Jones, and I will try my best not to doubt your intelligence from this point onwards, as long as you try your best to prove to me that it's there.

I'm glad you've seen the error of your ways. Were I to kill a German, I probably wouldn't be able to tell anyone because I'd be so amazed by the fact I'd actually managed to do something such as take another's life, I'd probably die from shock. You say that Jones, but everyone is, really. That's why we all attempt to face death wearing a brave face; we want to go out in a manner that only contributes positively to our memory. I see no reason for you to apologise; I don't doubt I'd seem ignorant to some of your own American culture. We may speak the same language but we are in no way the same nationality. I feel a lot of people forget that. Thank you for your kind words of motivation. I'm sure I'll take them to heart.

Hoping that the American will make his intelligence more noticeable,  
Arthur Kirkland

* * *

**Author's Note: **Look who's back! Sorry for the extremely long, impromptu hiatus. I won't bore you with the details. I just wanted to apologise for my absence, let you know that this story (along with Normality and Arianna in Wonderland) will return to it's usual update schedule and thank you for your continued support. **  
**


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